


A (Gingerbread) House that we can Build

by eliotsvests (surprisegents), mtothedestiel



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Architect!Eliot, Baker!Quentin, Baking, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Competition, Explicit Sexual Content, Fatherhood, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, Kid Fic, Light Angst, Long-Distance Friendship, M/M, Meet-Cute, Parenthood, Past Character Death, Reunions, gingerbread, reconnecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:02:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21696631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/surprisegents/pseuds/eliotsvests, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtothedestiel/pseuds/mtothedestiel
Summary: “Happiness is not a house where you can live, but it is a house that you can build.” — asofterworldIts a magical holiday season in the one and only New York City. A Christmas coincidence reconnects two friends after ten years to set them on a quest: build the best, most jaw-droppingly amazing gingerbread house they can. But a lot of things have changed since they were nineteen. Will Eliot cling to his dreams of the past, or is he finally willing to find a place to call home?
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 66
Kudos: 290
Collections: Magicians Hallmark Holiday Extravaganza





	1. October

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! I'm so excited to share this sweet little fic with you. I've always been a huge fan of Nora Ephron movies, and so setting my MHHE fic in NYC i did my best to channel that energy. I hope you enjoy! My biggest thanks to the organizers of the MHHE, and the biggest shoutout to eliotsvests, who made the absolutely adorable art to accompany this fic. I couldn't have asked for a more magical collaboration, so be sure to pop over to tumblr @eliotsvests and give him lots of love!
> 
> Finally, a big thanks to my beta (and occasional ghostwriter) destielpasta! If you haven't checked out our collaboration "Our Sublime Refrain" you're missing out on an epic Romance!

_ Seven years old was too young to know what not to put on your Christmas list, and too young to know what “drunk” meant when your mother tried to make excuses for your asshole of a dad.  _

_ “H-he said easy bake ovens are for girls, and if I put it on my list at school people will think—” _

_ Eliot stopped his stuttering and his grandmother sighed, sweeping her iron-gray hair from where it had fallen in front of her face. She set the wooden spoon back in the big bowl of batter and pulled Eliot into a hug. He closed his eyes. She always smelled like Christmas, cinnamon and cloves and brown sugar.  _

_ “Nevermind what that man says, Ellie. But I’ll tell you a secret. Those toys are just cheap plastic. What comes out of them doesn’t taste very good.” _

_ “Oh.” Eliot thought they looked pretty nice based on the picture in the Sears catalog, but he believed his grandmother when she nodded sagely. _

_ “But,” she continued, “You can come help in the kitchen with Nana, and I’ll teach you to make the real thing.”  _

_ Eliot wiped his tears. Helping Nana meant getting to measure, and use the big mixer, and most importantly it meant he got to lick the beaters at the end.  _

_ “Okay,” he managed, with only a little sniffle.  _

_ “Good boy. Now look in my recipe box, under ‘G’ for ‘Gingerbread’.”  _

“—latte?”

Eliot started out of the memory. The hum of his grandmother’s old kitchenaid mixer left his ears, replaced with the bustle of the airport coffee cart.

“Sir?” 

“Uh, sorry, trip down memory lane.” Eliot shook his head, adjusting his grip on the handle of his Prada rolling suitcase. “Come again?” 

The cashier smiled with just a  _ slight  _ edge of impatience. “Would you like to try our new Gingerbread latte?”

Eliot smiled weakly. “It’s a little early for the Christmas flavors, don’t you think?”

“I just roll them out when corporate gives the order, sir.” 

“I’ll stick with hazelnut, but thanks,” Eliot replied.

No reaction. Then again, she’d probably heard every quip and complaint about early Christmas cheer a hundred times today. 

She punched a few buttons on the touch-screen register. “That’ll be three ninety-five.” 

Eliot swiped his credit card, and then he had five minutes to wait in line with the rest of the recent occupants of Flight 322, Las Vegas to JFK. Flying always left him a little groggy, and It was going to be an ungodly hour of traffic to get a cab back to Manhattan. Eliot would be damned before he did it without coffee. He pulled out his phone to fire off a text to Margo.

_ E: Back on the ground in NYC. It’s a balmy 47 degrees out *facepalm emoji* _

Her reply came quickly. She was probably on lunch right now, with the three hour time difference. 

_ M: Hail the return of the conquering hero *sword emoji, medal emoji, confetti emoji* _

_ M: And suck it up for one more season, buttercup. This time next year you’ll be enjoying the holidays in sunny LA with mama _

Eliot smiled down at his phone. Margo had managed her California dreams early, fighting her way up the totem pole of fashion journalism. His route had been a little more roundabout, first through a Master’s then a New York architecture firm, but he was finally on the short list for a promotion that would land him in Los Angeles with Margo, his queer-platonic soulmate. Together, they could conquer the world. Their Franzia soaked aspirations from undergrad were finally becoming reality. He shot back a string of Santa Claus and palm tree emojis and grabbed his latte from the counter before heading for the cabstand. 

Once in the cab, his phone buzzed again with her response.

_ M: How was the Grindr scene in Vegas?? *eyeball emoji, eggplant emoji, water drops emoji* _

_ Colorful as ever,  _ Eliot fibbed before putting his phone away. He didn’t have the heart to tell Margo that Vegas had been eighty-six hours of wall to wall work spent in hotel rooms, either the ones he was designing or the over air-conditioned one he had stayed in. The closest he had come to a heart-stopping encounter had been when he found out the vending machine was stocked with dark chocolate Milky-Way bars. 

He bit his lip as the busy Manhattan scene flew by him at breakneck NYC cab speeds. He also didn’t have the heart to tell Margo that he’d deleted Grindr a few weeks ago. Something in him twinged at the idea of disappointing Bambi, as if he were failing to live up to the image she still had of him from their early twenties, but the usual routine of rushed drinks and after hours hookups had left him cold lately, especially without her close by to dull the Millennial isolation of it all. He’d rather just stay home and work. Eliot sighed. He’d try again after the move to LA. 

Suddenly the idea of going home to his empty apartment with so many hours left in the day made him antsy. On impulse, he knocked on the partition behind the driver. 

“Excuse me, I’ve changed my mind. Would you take me to Midtown instead?”

~

The place Eliot slept and watched Netflix when he was in Manhattan was a respectable one bedroom loft at the bottom of Tribeca. Where he  _ lived  _ in Manhattan was his corner office at the Midtown headquarters of  _ Royalty Architecture and Design _ . This stylish skyrise was where he did his drafting, where he spent long hours coaxing his abstract luxury fantasies into cold hard blueprints ready for building, and generally got away with murder thanks to his easily cajoled but not entirely incompetent boss. No amount of inter-office politics or endless boardroom meetings could spoil that. 

Today would be a special triumph—and a far better alternative than spending the entire afternoon alone in his cavernous apartment—given the successful completion of his Vegas project. There were no deadlines awaiting Eliot today, only accolades and a congratulatory meeting with his boss, which would hopefully be accompanied by the promise of a promotion three time zones away.

Daydreams of validation from Pickwick and a life in a temperate climate with his best friend at his side kept his head in the clouds as the elevator door dinged open, and maybe that was why Eliot wasn’t paying attention when he stepped out onto the gleaming tile floor of his office. He realized just a hair too late that there was a person right in front of him, a man holding a large white box that partially obscured his face. 

He stopped suddenly, his Italian loafers squeaking tackily across the floor, halting himself before completely colliding with the poor soul that had crossed his path. 

“I—oh, excuse me.” What could have been a disaster had he been power walking was more of a moderate jostle, but Eliot still reached out and caught the man’s arm on instinct, keeping the box he held from toppling out of his hands. “Sorry, I wasn’t looking...” 

Eliot’s words petered out when his eyes caught on the wrist he was holding.

He knew that wrist. He knew those  _ hands _ . Hands now holding a white bakery box but had once spent hours holding books—various textbooks but more often  _ Fillory and Further _ —while the body they were attached to lay on the bed of Eliot’s extra-long twin bed in his undergraduate dorm. It should have been annoying, considering  _ someone _ had  _ their own room they could read in _ — the pretended whining of a post-adolescent who had no idea how to properly flirt without casually bullying the object of his affections came back to Eliot in a moment—but it had been the furthest thing from irritating to have him near, reading aloud, or pretending to study, or showing him out of date memes, his pretty brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed—  _ El, El, look at this one, oh my god you’ll die, I swear—  _

Eliot blinked and looked up, shaking himself out of the memory. The wrist he held was attached to the sleeve of an ugly navy blue windbreaker, and above that attached to the face of a very handsome man. 

It had been  _ years _ , but here he was, the object of all of Eliot’s undergraduate pining. Quentin Coldwater, in the flesh. 

“Q,” he breathed, like a revelation. Quentin’s eyes widened, first with surprise, and then recognition. 

“Eliot?” 

A smile broke out over Quentin’s face, and then Eliot was pulled into an awkward half hug, the bakery box wedged between them with a crunch. Eliot hardly had the chance to squeeze back, feeling a solid set of shoulders under his arm and the warmth of Quentin’s slim sturdy body against his before Quentin stepped away. He soaked in the look of him, his hair still long enough to pull back into the messy bun Eliot remembered and the hint of afternoon shadow on his jaw. He was flushed, as if he had been in a hurry, his cheeks reddened a bit from the cold outside. Eliot’s mouth went a little dry. 

His memories of the boy he had pined for paled in comparison to the real thing in front of him. Quentin had been cute in undergrad, but damn if thirty didn’t look good on him.

“I had no idea you lived in the city! Wow, it’s great to see you,” he was saying, and Eliot snapped back to the present. “Do you work here?” 

“I— yeah, I’m part of the architecture team,” he replied, pushing as much warmth as he could into his voice as he could. Suddenly,  _ foolishly,  _ he very much wanted Quentin to know how happy he was to see him. “It’s really good to see you, too. It’s been...I mean,  _ way  _ too long. I’m sorry that I haven’t kept in better touch.” 

Quentin shook his head. “Don’t be,” he said, like Eliot was being silly. “Clearly you’ve been busy, and I haven’t exactly been all over social media to chat. An architect, though, El. That’s amazing. I remember you used to talk about it all the time in school.” 

“Yeah, it really happened.” 

_ We used to talk about everything _ , Eliot thought.  _ And then you left _ . 

Junior year, right before Christmas break, Quentin had announced his dad was sick and he was taking a leave from school to help him run his shop for a few months back in Brooklyn. It was  _ supposed _ to be no big deal. It was the twenty-first century, after all. They would all stay in touch on Skype and text, and Quentin would be back once his dad beat cancer. Eliot hadn’t known when he left him with a lingering hug at the bus station that it would be the last time he would see his best friend in person for ten years. 

“It’s such a crazy thing to run into you. I’m not even supposed to be here,” Quentin continued, smile wide as he talked at the mile a minute pace Eliot so fondly remembered. “Or, well, I  _ am _ , like allowed—I just mean I have an assistant who normally does my deliveries, but Benedict’s got the flu and I’m a little short handed.”

Quentin’s light-hearted small talk was tinged with an edge of stress.

Eliot gestured to what he was holding. “What’s the box?”

“Cupcakes,” Quentin explained. “I guess your office is having a Halloween party?” 

“Maybe, I’ve been out of town, so I’m a little out of the loop,” Eliot said. “Wait, cupcakes? So you must still be working with your dad. At the bakery, right?"

Quentin rubbed at the back of his neck, looking at the ground. 

“Um, yeah,” he said. “It’s paying the bills, anyway.” 

“That’s great. How is he?” Eliot asked. “Your dad. I remember he came to parent’s weekend that one time, right? He was nicer to me than anybody needed to be to a hungover nineteen year old they didn’t even know.” 

Quentin laughed. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” 

“Is he back at the shop?” 

“Um, no,” Quentin fidgeted. “He’s gone actually. He um, passed away, I mean.” 

Eliot stared. “Oh my God, Q. You’re kidding.” 

Quentin nodded. “Since about a year after I left school. We thought he was in remission, but I guess it was just a lull, really, and um—” 

“You never said,” Eliot murmured, keeping any flavor of blame out of his voice. 

They had still been in touch then, group chats and the occasional late night facebook message. There had come a point, Eliot realized now, when Quentin’s presence even via text had just...faded away. There had been a lot of  _ Sorry we haven’t talked in a while! Let’s get together soon!  _ texts, but even then they became far and few in between, and Eliot then had gotten caught up in his senior thesis and graduation, his own dreams so close to coming to fruition, and he realized now with guilt that he hadn’t noticed when his best friend had disappeared. 

“I had a lot to do,” Quentin shrugged, like going through his father’s death isolated from his support system was just no big deal. “I took over the shop, once everything was taken care of, and I had Julia. She still does my accounts for me, and, um, helps out.” 

_ I would have helped _ , Eliot wanted to say, but this far gone from the moment it didn’t seem productive, so he settled for a lame, “I’m sorry, Q.” 

“Yeah, well, it was almost ten years ago now,” Quentin said. 

Eliot cast about for a more cheerful topic.

“I, uh, I heard you got married,” he remembered. Margo had told him, having seen the Instagram pics a year or two after they graduated. Eliot had gotten spectacularly drunk that night and refused to contemplate why. 

Quentin made an odd expression, almost like a wince. 

“I did,” he said. “It was kind of quick, and really small, or you and Margo would have been invited, of course—”

Eliot shook his head. “I’m not fishing for an apology,” he promised. “But your wife— Arielle, right? — She must be pretty great, to have snagged you.” 

Why was Quentin’s smile so sad?

“She was, yeah.” Eliot’s brow furrowed at the odd tone to Quentin’s voice, and he couldn’t school his features before his brain caught up with the past tense in time for Quentin to duck his head a little and continue: “Um, she died a couple of years ago.” 

Eliot felt like an ice cube had dropped down the back of his shirt. “Jesus, Quentin, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—” 

Quentin laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s fine. I’m uh, a bit of a minefield when it comes to normal small talk.” 

“Still, I think I’m just going to stop talking, like forever.”

“No, don’t,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “I’m really glad to see you, even if—well. I’m sure there’s a lot we’ve both missed out on.” 

“—hello there! Are you from the bakery? We’re down here!” 

They both started a little as a woman called out to them from down the hall. It was Marlene from HR, Eliot realized. An unstoppable party planner. 

“I’ll be right there,” Quentin called back, before turning to Eliot with a rueful grin. “Listen, I have to—” He shifted the large bakery box in his arms. 

“Don’t let me keep you.” Eliot didn’t want to let Quentin out of his sight, but sometimes that’s just how the story goes, isn’t it? “We’re probably still Facebook friends, right?”

Quentin shook his head, rummaging through his jacket pockets for something. “No, I’m never on there. After Arielle I— anyway. But I want to—”

With a little  _ ha _ of triumph, Quentin pulled a small rectangle of paper from his pocket. He offered it to Eliot, who realized that it was actually a business card.  _ Coldwater and Sons Bakery _ , with a little drawing of a loaf of bread next to the name. Cute. 

“That’s just the shop number, but um, I’m always there anyway— and the address too! I mean, of course, but you know, if you were in Brooklyn you could stop by, get a bagel on the house— um maybe—” 

“Q.” 

“I— yeah?” 

Eliot found that he was smiling. Nineteen year old nerdy Q had filled out into a handsome man, but he was still as adorable as ever when he got flustered. 

“I’m really glad we ran into each other.” 

Quentin smiled, his eyes going squinty at the corners just like they used to. 

“Me too.” 

“And I’ll be sure to use this,” Eliot said, waving the card before tucking it behind his pocket square. “I’ll come eat your bagels, and we can see how many other personal tragedies I trip over trying to reminisce.” 

Quentin’s smile dipped, but only for a second. 

“It’s really okay, El,” he promised, looking down the hall where Marlene was waiting for him. The office Halloween mixer would not be delayed, even for delightfully surprising reunions.

“I have to go,” Quentin said, “But I really hope I hear from you.” 

“You will.” With one last harried smile, Quentin turned away and hurried down the hall where his delivery was expected. Eliot watched until he disappeared into the conference room, feeling the touch of serendipity. It had been too long since he’d thought about Q, and suddenly there he had been. He couldn’t wait to tell Margo.

“Hail the conquering hero!”

Okay, reunion with still-cute college friend/crush over. Eliot turned to see his boss coming down the opposite hall. Tick Pickwick always walked like he was in a hurry, and wore a suit as if it chafed him. Nonetheless he was coming with a smile, so Eliot took it to be good news.

“Tick,” he said. “It’s good to be back.” 

“Excellent job in Las Vegas, Eliot, really excellent,” Tick said, giving him a handshake that threatened to take Eliot’s arm off at the elbow. 

“All in a day’s work,” He said, extricating his hand. 

“Not at all! I’ve been keeping an eye on the press, and by all accounts the opening was a smash!” 

Eliot knew all this, of course. He’s been tracking their Instagram tags for a week.  _ Royalty  _ and  _ Hilton  _ had seen a ten percent bump in favorable hashtags in the last three days, perfectly coinciding with the grand opening of Eliot’s latest project. 

“Anyway, I know you’ve been keeping track yourself,” Tick said. “But I have bigger news to discuss with you. Why don’t we step into my office?”

“Lead the way.”

It was a short jaunt down the hall. Every cell in Tick’s body seemed to be buzzing with whatever it is he wanted to tell him. Eliot has hardly sat in his chair when his boss burst out with:

“They want to send you to Los Angeles.” 

_ Los Angeles.  _

This was it. This was five years of overtime and extra projects, making friends with every supervisor and volunteering for every oversight committee that came down the pipeline, all worth it for what Tick Pickwick was saying to him right now. Eliot tried to stay cool, and not get lost in the promise of all the Mai Tais he’d be drinking soon with Margo on the rooftop terrace of her beachfront apartment.

“Who’s they?” he asked, settling stylishly into the chair opposite  _ Royalty’ _ s Vice President of East Coast Plans and Projects. 

“The board,” Tick explained, looking nervous as usual. “They’ve all but decided, after the successful opening in Vegas. The West Coast expansion is well underway and they want you heading the design team.” 

Eliot folded his hands over his knee lest he be tempted to fist pump.  _ Yes yes yes. _

“I would remind you, of course,” Tick continued, “How needed and appreciated you are here in New York. If there’s anything we could do you tempt you, maybe a title upgrade, or a raise in the new year? We have some exciting projects coming down the pipeline—” 

“Tick, I’m so incredibly grateful for the start  _ Royalty _ gave me in Manhattan,” Eliot cut him off, ever the diplomat, “But please tell the board I am  _ extremely  _ interested in the Los Angeles position.”

“Well, they’ll certainly be thrilled.” Tick’s grimace said he was anything but. Or maybe that was supposed to be a smile? Eliot had long ago given up trying to interpret the nuance of Pickwick facial expressions.

“There is just one, small, hm... _ formality _ .” 

Eliot had his phone halfway out of his pocket, about to try and send a covert text to Margo, but something in Tick’s tone stopped him. 

“Formality?”

“Well, they have been considering several strong  _ external _ candidates as well,” Tick explained. “I’ve been made to understand that you taking on this project would be seen as a highly significant gesture, not just generating good PR for us but demonstrating that you  _ understand  _ the  _ Royalty _ brand in a way no outside hire could.” 

“And my six successful hotel constructions haven’t accomplished that?” Eliot had to ask, arms crossed. Tick folded his hands on his desk and smiled apologetically. 

“They may like modern buildings but these are old-fashioned people Mr. Waugh. They like to see their executives go above and beyond for the company.” 

“Spit it out, Tick,” Eliot said, and since he was being nice he added: “Please.”

“Well,  _ Royalty— _ along with several other prestigious firms—has been invited to participate in a kind of contest— an architecture contest! Nothing silly, I assure you.” 

“A contest,” Eliot repeated. “Like a ‘design the new Metropolitan Opera house’ kind of contest?”

Tick winced. “More like ‘design a holiday gingerbread house’ kind of contest.” 

Eliot stared. “Gingerbread.” 

Tick nodded, as though Eliot were somehow communicating enthusiasm. “Yes! I think you’ll be a hit! And of course we expect a luxurious expression of the  _ Royalty _ brand, with a heaping spoonful of holiday spirit—” 

“Tick,” Eliot thought over his next words carefully, all the while the words  _ gingerbread _ and  _ holiday _ threatening to summon up all kinds of memories he preferred to keep fondly boxed away. “I don’t really do ‘holiday spirit.’”

“Well, you do now,” Tick declared, turning from friendly to blunt in a second as Eliot should have expected. “Or the board will give the LA job to someone else! Should I tell them you’re not interested?” 

“Ah, no, you know what, I’ll manage.” 

Tick smiled. “That’s what I thought. Oh, this will be such fun. You’ll produce a design in collaboration with a pastry chef, and they’ll construct your vision in time for the gala award ceremony on the 22nd. Oh, and it has to be ninety percent edible, so be sure to factor that into your plans.” 

Eliot sighed deeply. “I built a skyrise in Vegas in a year and a half, mostly over Skype,” he declared. “How hard could a luxury gingerbread house in two months be?”

“That’s the spirit!” Tick actually clapped his hands. “I knew you would be the man for this challenge.” 

“Sure. Now what patisserie diva am I collaborating with on this thing?” 

Tick’s smile/grimace shrank slightly. “Ah. Right. Well, that’s actually going to be the first stage of this challenge, so to speak.” 

Eliot’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me.” 

“Well, we had an agreement with Belladonna, the pastry chef at the Ritz.” 

“The Fairy Queen?” Eliot remembered her picture from the cover of Food and Wine magazine. “She’d be tough to work with, I’m sure.” 

“Then the good news is, you won’t be working with her.” 

“Contract issues?” Eliot guessed. Tick winced. 

“No no, she signed a contract,” he said. “Just, with another company.” 

Eliot sighed. “So she got poached.” 

“I’m afraid so.” 

“Who’s the replacement, then?” 

“So that’s the thing…” 

Eliot leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. 

“Tick, it’s two months before the event.  _ Please _ tell me you have a pastry chef lined up for me to work with.”

“We have a list of possible candidates,” Tick offered, as if that made things any better. “I assure you, this whole snafu happened in the last few days. You were coming back to town and we thought leaving the decision to you would be best for everyone. Now you can make the choice, and pick someone whose methods are compatible with yours.” 

And Tick’s office didn’t have to deal with the hiring process, Eliot thought. 

“That was very considerate of you,” is what he said instead, trying not to grind his teeth. 

“We thought so.” 

“Well, I’d better get started on some calls, shouldn’t I?” Eliot said, rising before Tick actually gave his permission. 

“Good luck, and don’t forget all of  _ Royalty _ is counting on you!” Tick called after him as Eliot booked it back to his office, trying to keep the scowl off his face. Of all ridiculous things. It would be easy at least,  _ if _ Eliot could find a pastry chef to partner with—two months before Christmas, aka the busiest baking time of the year. 

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose as he approached his wing of the building. 

“Welcome back, Mr. Waugh!” 

He sighed. “Thank you, Fen.” 

Eliot’s secretary—technically the secretary for the whole design team, but she liked Eliot best—was far too sweet for him to snap at her, even though this was meant to be his day of victory and instead he was standing on the far side of a sugary PR project. 

“Fen, can you pull up this gingerbread dossier for me? Tick’s office should have sent it over this morning. There’s a call sheet as well. I want to start working through it.”

“Right away.” 

“Let me know when you’ve got the first candidate on the line. I want to get this over with as quickly as possible.” 

How could he have known, as he stowed his suitcase and coat away in his private closet and took a seat in his ergonomic and stylish office chair, that  _ quickly  _ was not a word that was about to apply to the next hour and a half of Eliot’s life. 

“Really, chef, I can’t emphasize enough the prestige of this event—” Eliot said, twelve calls later. He could barely hear the French accented voice through the clamor of the kitchen on the other line. “—you’re already catering whose wedding on the 20th? Okay no, I take your point, it’s not every day a former president calls—yes, yes, thank you for your time.”

Eliot hung up and crossed  _ Jean-Luc at the Four Seasons _ off his list. It was at the bottom of a long list of strikethroughs. This was officially turning into a problem. Eliot hit the button on his intercom. 

“No luck, Fen. Can you put the next one through?” 

There was a moment of pause, then “Uh, that was the last one, Mr. Waugh.”

Shit. This was officially a big problem. 

Fen came through the speaker again. “Should I let Mr. Pickwick know?” 

“No!” Eliot said quickly. “I mean, no, not yet. Just give me a minute to think.”

All he needed was five years of work to get wiped out because he couldn’t secure a simple vendor contract. Even though an  _ idiot _ could have told Pickwick it would be impossible to line up a bakery for an event on the 22nd of December. This was Manhattan, where Christmas catering events had to be booked a year in advance. Not to mention, four other competing firms had gotten their contracts locked in ahead of him, so what wiggle room there was to be had would have vanished in September. As of right now,  _ Royalty _ was going to have an empty table unless Eliot could think of a plan. 

Eliot paced for a while, looking out his floor to ceiling windows. From this high up the view was pretty spectacular, and that always gave Eliot a lot inspiration. He was surrounded by skyscrapers, and just on the horizon, he could see the dip of the East River and the swooping cables at the top of the Queensboro bridge. He’d love to be walking across that bridge now, or anywhere that wasn’t here in this fuck-all of a mess. 

Something pinged in the back of Eliot’s mind, and he slipped his hand into his pants pocket, where he felt a little rectangular piece of cardstock. Pulling the card Quentin had given him free, traced his fingers over the lightly embossed type. 

_ Coldwater and Sons Bakery. 69th street, Bay Ridge. _

This was Manhattan. What about Brooklyn? Eliot bit his lip. Was it crazy to even consider? He tried to picture it: Quentin, in his navy windbreaker and sneakers among the prada-wearing, pretentious hotel designers he worked with on a day to day basis that only spoke in profit margins and taglines. Even a friendly holiday competition was cutthroat in corporate America. Guiltily, he wondered: could Quentin take on this kind of project? 

In the back of his mind, the scared, less snobby part of his psyche whispered:

Would Quentin even  _ want _ to?

He bit lip, slipping the card back into his pocket for safekeeping.

“Fen, would you call me a car? I might have a connection for this.” 

It was a long cab ride all the way to the top of Bay Ridge, but Eliot felt a flicker of hope coupled with an earthquake’s amount of nerves as he approached the charming storefront of  _ Coldwater and Sons _ , tucked in between a florist and a dentist’s office. Quentin had always talked about his family bakery fondly, hinting liberally that Eliot and Margo would have been welcome to visit. As Eliot stepped out of the cab, he regretted that he had never made that happen in reality. 

It was the embodiment of the old New York dream, with a little blue awning shading a small sidewalk patio that no doubt housed outdoor seating in warmer weather. The bakery boasted large windows perfect for displays, and there in the front window, surrounded by loaves of bread and fake spiderwebs, was a gingerbread house, all done up like a haunted mansion and cute enough to make Martha Stewart green with envy. 

Eliot’s doubts evaporated. He knew his prayers had been answered. Now to get Quentin to agree...

He stepped through the front door to the chime of a bell. Classic.  _ Coldwater and Sons _ was a hole in the wall kind of spot, with five or six two-seater tables making up a little cafe area in front of a large glass case full of delicious looking desserts and a counter with a few stools. Shelves reached up nearly to the ceiling behind the counter holding baskets of breads and bagels. Eliot inhaled and the smell of yeast and flour and something caramel, like brown sugar and butter, warmed him from the inside out. 

“Be right with you!” Came a call from an open doorway behind the register. Eliot could year the scrape and slam of baking sheets moving around and an oven door opening and closing. That must be the kitchen. Content to wait, Eliot leaned against the counter, and realized with a start that one of the little cafe tables was occupied. 

“Hi,” said the smallest Tyrannosaurus Rex Eliot had ever seen. He had to admit it was a cute costume—like a set of pajamas but with a hood and fearsome claw mittens—and on an even cuter kid. Eliot wasn’t really in the business of guessing kid’s ages, but the little guy might have been four or five. He was set up comfortably at a table with a glass of juice and some coloring books. Definitely not an independent patron of Quentin’s business, Eliot mused, unless the parenting trends in Brooklyn had really gone off the deep end. 

“Uh, hi,” Eliot replied. Satisfied with his social interaction, the kid nodded and returned to his coloring, his feet swinging under his chair. 

“—Hi, sorry, how can I help y—oh. Eliot, hey.”

Eliot turned as Quentin emerged from the back room, and he smiled. He hadn’t gotten any less cute since Eliot had seen him a few hours ago. In fact, without a box full of cupcakes and an ugly windbreaker obscuring the view Eliot could safely say Quentin was even more attractive than he had previously dared to imagine.

Baker’s arms, and all that. 

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” Quentin was saying, slipping an apron—an honest to god apron—over his head and hanging it on a hook behind the counter. “But welcome to Brooklyn.” 

“Uh, yeah. I was in the neighborhood,” Eliot said, staring at Quentin’s biceps. In the warm shop interior he was only wearing a navy-blue t-shirt with  _ Coldwater and Sons _ embroidered on the front pocket, and Eliot couldn’t help thinking there should be a sign out front advertising those assets. God, he could probably heft a fifty-pound bag of flour like it was no big deal. 

Eliot blinked, and found Quentin watching him with raised eyebrows, a smile playing at his lips. 

“In the neighborhood?” he repeated, rightfully skeptical. 

“Okay, more like, one borough adjacent,” Eliot admitted. “But, um, I hope your invitation still stands.” 

“Of course,” Quentin replied, seemingly pleased, to Eliot’s relief. “You’re just in time for the post lunch lull.” 

“Perfect timing, then.” 

Eliot shifted, feeling a little awkward, when he remembered the kid sitting in the corner. 

“Also just FYI, Q, it looks like you have a dinosaur on the loose out here.”

Quentin looked over Eliot’s shoulder, concerned, then he laughed. 

“Yeah, no worries,” he said, “That one’s mine. It was Pre-K Halloween today. Teddy!”

“Teddy’s” little blonde head popped up from his coloring book. “Yeah?” 

“Come say hi, buddy.”

Teddy climbed down from his chair and scurried behind the counter. He spared a glance for Eliot but focused all his fine motor skills towards tugging on Quentin’s pant leg and asking: “Dad, who’s that? Also, can I have some more cider?” 

Dad. 

Dad.

_ Dad. _

Ah. 

_ Strike three, Waugh _ , Eliot thought to himself. There could only be so many times he could put his foot in his mouth before Quentin decided these painful interactions weren’t worth the nostalgia. Mercifully, Quentin just dipped down to pick up his son— his  _ son—  _

“Teddy, this is Eliot. We were friends when I was in college before you were born.” And okay, statements like  _ that _ made Eliot feel old. Teddy’s brown eyes went wide. 

“Like way back when you were a  _ kid _ ?” Again, Teddy’s tone was incredulous, as if Eliot were a relic of the impossibly ancient past. 

Quentin laughed. “Uh, yeah, pretty much.” 

“We were definitely kids,” Eliot chimed in, just to see Quentin’s eyes crinkle again when he smiled at him. 

“Yeah,” Quentin agreed, expression wistful for a second. Then: “So um, yeah, El. This is my son, Teddy.”

“Hi,” Eliot said, taking that in. 

“Hi again,” Teddy said, before returning his attention to Quentin. “Cider?” 

“We’re having dinner with Aunt Julia later, remember? You can have more juice then,” Quentin said, in a dad voice that was doing things to Eliot’s insides. “How about a glass of water?” 

Teddy wrinkled his nose, and for a second Eliot was nineteen again, watching Quentin survey the selection of young-adult fantasy literature at the campus bookstore with distaste. 

“Wow.” 

Both Coldwater men looked up at him, and the resemblance was even more striking. 

“I mean,” Eliot said, laughing with disbelief. “He’s like a mini-you.”

Quentin smiled, a touch of sadness in it. “Thanks,” he said, “Everybody says that, but he really looks like Arielle.”

There was a trace about Teddy that didn’t match up to Quentin. The shape of his mouth, maybe, and a reddish tint to his hair. It was enough to imagine a blurred picture of the woman who Quentin had loved enough to marry and start a family with. 

“I’m sure,” Eliot agreed. “Wow, Q. I know we’ve got some catching up to do....but you’re a  _ dad _ .” 

Quentin looked down at his son, and his smile held so much love that it made something catch in Eliot’s chest. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Best thing I’ve ever done.” 

Eliot cleared his throat. “That’s really—”

“You’re dressed really fancy,” Teddy interrupted, looking at Eliot with renewed interest. “Do you live in a castle?” 

Eliot stroked over his plum-colored tie and silk vest self-consciously. 

“No, I have to wear a suit for work,” Eliot explained. “And I’ve always liked dressing this way. Your dad remembers.” 

“I remember a more college budget friendly version,” Quentin said. He had a teasing twinkle in his eye, but Eliot couldn’t help preening as he cast his gaze over Eliot’s figure appreciatively. He forbid himself wishing that Quentin was admiring more than Eliot’s good taste in suits.

“So as much as I’d like to, I don’t live in a castle,” Eliot concluded, looking back to Teddy. 

“Oh.” Teddy looked disappointed in this answer, then his brow furrowed. “Are you a member of the booj-wah-sie?”

“Okay! Let’s get you that glass of water, buddy—” 

Eliot blinked while Quentin whisked Teddy over to a classy little dispenser full of water and lemon slices that was set up with utensils and napkins.

“Sorry about that,” Quentin said, once Teddy was settled with a drink and his coloring books once more. “His two favorite books right now are  _ Fillory and Further _ and  _ A is for Activist _ , so sometimes the wires get a little crossed.”

“Fairytale prince or capitalist oppressor. I’m sure there’s a good Vulture article in there somewhere.”

Quentin laughed. “I bet. Can I grab you something to drink? I just filled a new coffee.” 

“Sure, that’d be great.” 

Eliot took a seat at one of the high stools that lined the front counter.

“So, Quentin, I have to confess,” he said, once he was holding a steaming mug in his hand. “I didn’t come here just to catch up.” 

“No?” Quentin emerged with a tray full of scones from the kitchen. He used a branded napkin to pluck one free of its place on the baking sheet and place it in front of Eliot. “Try one of these for me, will you? It’s been slow today so I’m recipe testing."

“Uh, sure.” Eliot broke the scone in half, still warm, and the aroma of thyme and rosemary greeted him like a friendly hug. “Wow.” 

Quentin smiled and ducked his head, still incapable of taking a compliment apparently.

“So what brings you out to Brooklyn, then, besides the promised free baked goods?” he asked. Eliot had to swallow his bite of— delicious, holy shit— scone before he could answer. 

“Well, you see, I’m in a bit of a situation with my latest project, and I need a baker to bail me out.” 

Quentin tilted his head, puzzled. “What, you mean like a catering thing?” 

“No, much more involved than that—but I really think it could be mutually beneficial. You see—” 

Eliot explained the whole fiasco with Tick and the gingerbread contest and Belladonna the pastry diva. God, hearing himself say it all out loud he sounded like a crazy person. He’d been living the normal privileged life of the attractive and upper middle class until just a few hours ago, and now he was living out the plot of some kind of bizarre holiday movie. 

“So anyway I really did want to come down just to catch up, but now I’m in a crisis and you’re my only hope,” Eliot concluded. “I need a partner, and you’ve definitely got the skills. I saw that Addam’s family mansion on my way in.” 

“Yeah, but that was just for fun,” Quentin said, “This thing would be how big?”

“Oversized, but still table top,” Eliot said, holding his hand up three or so feet from the counter to illustrate. “And only ninety percent edible, so we’ll be able to cheat with some structural support.” 

“Huh. Difficult, but not impossible— wait, what am I saying—” Quentin blew a breath out through his teeth as he scratched his head. “El, I want to help, but Christmas…it’s a busy time. I’ve already got cookie orders, and honestly I need as many as I can get.” 

“Trust me, I’ve been hearing it from every pastry chef in the city, but think about it,” Eliot pleaded. “This is a seriously high end event. Your name would be on everything as an equal partner, and the Instagram tagging  _ alone _ will push a world of new business your way, not to mention culinary press that will definitely be there. Coldwater and Sons would be on the map in a big way.”

Quentin shook his head. “I can’t afford to do it. The materials, my labor, getting coverage for the shop—”

“You don’t have to worry about that, my firm covers all the overhead,” Eliot promised, “And I’m not talking about a volunteer project. You’d get paid for your time, the same rate we were going to pay Belladonna.” 

Quentin’s eyes went round. 

“Belladonna runs the pastry kitchen of a five star hotel,” he said. “I mean, I just read an article about her in  _ Bon Appetit _ .” 

“So I imagine whatever fee she asked for would be a nice little Christmas bonus for you.” Eliot said this, pointedly  _ not _ looking at the dated glass case he beside, or the scrupulously clean but cracked in a few places tile on the floor, or the four-year-old coloring in the front room because Q obviously couldn’t afford full time childcare. 

Quentin nodded, still looking a little punchdrunk. “That’s one way of putting it.”

Eliot slipped a business card out of his pocket, and wrote a few figures down on the back before sliding it across the counter. 

“Would this make it worth your time?” he asked. “On top of advertising for Coldwater and Sons in partnership with my firm, which we have a separate budget for.” 

“I—” Eliot thought Quentin’s eyebrows would fly right off his head. “Holy shit, Eliot,  _ yes _ . Yes, definitely. For  _ this _ —” Quentin waved the card like it was Wonka’s golden ticket. “—I’m in. I can see if Benedict can do more hours to help with orders, maybe, or—”

Quentin paused, and winced, as if he caught a bad taste in his mouth. 

“Not that I wouldn’t have wanted to do it,” he said, as if talking about his labor being worth money were gauche. “I mean you know, as a friend, but—”

Eliot waved aside his concern. “You’re running a business, don’t be silly. Besides,  _ Royalty _ is getting nothing but good PR out of it, so it’s more than worth the money.” 

“Really—”

“ _ Really _ , it’d be super tacky of me to come and ask you to do what will be an insane amount of baking  _ pro bono  _ when I work for a multi-million dollar operation, and you know tacky is the last thing I am,” Eliot said. Quentin raised an eyebrow. 

“So things have changed since college then?” 

“As I recall only one of us wore unironic  _ Harry Potter merchandise,  _ so glass houses, Q.” 

Quentin grinned, entirely unapologetic for the travesty that was his undergraduate wardrobe. 

“Okay,” he said. “So what’s next?” 

Eliot leaned on the counter, getting excited. “Now, we really get into the holiday spirit,” he said, smiling when Quentin raised his eyebrows, “With a mountain of legally binding paperwork.”

Eliot was rewarded for his little joke with a trademark Coldwater eye roll. At least some things hadn’t changed since college. 

“I’ll have my assistant send you a vendor contract,” he continued. “The sort of thing you might do if you were doing a wedding cake, or a catering event.”

“Sure,” Quentin agreed. “I had one on file for the Halloween order. You mind if I have somebody look it over anyway?” 

“I’d insist on it,” Eliot replied. “When that’s all squared away then we can officially get to work.” 

“Officially,” Quentin repeated. “Okay. And what if I wanted to reach out in an unofficial capacity in the meantime?” 

His lips curled with just a hint of a smile, and Eliot was struck dumb for a second. If this was anybody else, that would be a come on. Flirting, at least. Was it flirting? Was Quentin flirting with him? 

_Get ahold of yourself, Waugh_. _Wife. Son. Project partners._ _That’s it_. 

Still, Eliot was only human. 

“Well,” he said, “Then you should probably have my personal number.”

If he leaned a little further over the counter than necessary to fill out his contact on Quentin’s phone, that was only a coincidence which allowed him to appreciate those baker’s forearms at a closer angle. 

Eliot finished his scone and managed ten more minutes of conversation with Quentin without stumbling into any more unexpected personal tragedies, then they both were out of excuses not to go back to work. Eliot left the bakery and headed for the nearest R platform, skipping the taxi to give himself time to think. On the way, he pulled out his phone to update Margo.

_ E: You’ll never believe who I ran into today, Bambi... _

~

It didn’t take much to convince Tick— and by extension, the board of directors— to give Quentin the gingerbread gig. On the one hand there was  _ community building  _ and  _ supporting local business _ and  _ goodwill to men _ and on the other hand was the plain reality that they’d fucked up the Belladonna negotiations and Eliot had saved their skin. So after a few minutes of hand-holding and some of Fen’s time spent at Kinkos a courier was dispatched to Brooklyn with a festive and binding vendor agreement between  _ Royalty Architecture and Design _ and one Quentin Coldwater, owner and operator of  _ Coldwater and Sons Bakery. _

All that was left to do was wait, and start brainstorming design ideas. 

He was still at the office sketching when Eliot’s phone buzzed with a new picture message around nine that night. He picked up his phone to dismiss the notification until later, but paused when he saw it was from Quentin. Curiosity piqued, Eliot clicked the preview. 

“Oh, fuck you, Coldwater,” he cursed under his breath, unable to control his grin as he took in the picture of the two of them. It must have been sophomore year, Quentin angsting in his Ravenclaw sweatshirt and Eliot in a bowtie and suspenders looking like a desperate Brendan Urie impersonator. He was wearing  _ eyeliner _ , and not the expensive kind Eliot dabbled in now. 

Another buzz, this time a text. 

_ Q: The court finds the defendants guilty of tacky college fashion, your honor. _

_ E: Ok, but you forget one crucial fact. _

Q: … _?? _

_ E: I’m queer. No fashion mistake is unforgivable.  _

_ Q:… _

_ Q:… _

_ Q: So am I. It looks like we’ve reached a stalemate :p _

Eliot blinked. Quentin was queer? Was he supposed to know that already? 

This called for a third party. 

_ E: Did we know Quentin wasn’t straight?  _

_ M: ... _

_ M: I mean, I had a hunch, considering how thirsty he was for your dick idk the entire time we knew each other  _

_ E: Ok not helping. Real hard data. Bi!Q? Pan? Gay? _

_ M: Probably not the third one, considering the wife and kid situation _

_ E: you’re a font of wisdom _

Eliot was still puzzling when he got another picture from Quentin. It was a contract with  _ Royalty  _ letterhead at the top. 

_ Q: Inspected and approved by my attorney (aka Julia’s lawyer boyfriend). I’m about to sign my life away to two months of gingerbread servitude  _

Eliot grinned. This at least he knew how to contend with. 

_ E: I plan to be a benevolent, but demanding taskmaster. _

_ Q: I bet. What you do need from me?  _

Eliot absolutely did not allow his thoughts to meander toward multiple meanings that question could have. Professional, professional, professional. 

_ E: Data. What’s your recipe, how big a sheet can you bake at once. What’s the structural load bearing weight of a 5mm thick cookie? What are the adherent qualities of royal icing? You are now a gingerbread engineer, my friend.  _

_ Q:... _

_ Q:... _

_ Q: So this is going to be a real ordeal then _

_ E: Oh Q, you have no idea. Get baking, handsome ;) _

Eliot hesitated over the send button. Too much? He never would have hesitated to play at flirting back in the day, but they weren’t nineteen anymore. Still, what was life for if not indulging in some harmless homoerotic banter with your queer friend from undergrad? 

Eliot flipped back up for a moment to the picture Quentin had sent. God, but he’d been adorable. Eliot would have given anything to get under that hoodie. Things were different now, but at least Eliot could get his friend back, and do Quentin’s business a good turn before he took off for the West Coast. 

_ Carpe diem _ , he thought. He flipped back down to his latest message and hit send.

Suddenly Eliot wasn’t feeling quite so shitty about this whole gingerbread situation.


	2. November

“I don’t know, El, doesn’t it seem a little...cold?”

It was two weeks into the project. Eliot had gone through a couple of designs, and Quentin had spent some time tweaking his gingerbread recipe to be a little sturdier. In between they’d been texting, and calling to talk about supply logistics, and spending after hours time in Quentin’s shop making the kind of structural test models that reminded Eliot of his foundations architecture classes. With Teddy usually with his Aunt Julia or already asleep in Quentin’s connected upstairs apartment when Eliot stopped in, it was all too easy to imagine they were back in school. Sure, Quentin’s stories tended to revolve around his customers, or Teddy’s latest day-care antics, but it carried a nostalgic kind of magic all the same. 

Now Eliot had his first real idea for the final run, and Quentin seemed to think the magic was lacking. 

Eliot pursed his lips as he looked over the screen of his laptop where his design rotated slowly in 3D. They were in the kitchen of  _ Coldwater and Sons _ , and Quentin was multi-tasking, rolling out enriched dough for cinnamon rolls and giving Eliot his worst design critique since graduate school. 

“I mean, it’s a hotel,” he said. “That’s what I make for  _ Royalty _ . I thought we could go with like a Plaza at Christmas kind of thing, but contemporary.” 

Quentin frowned, setting aside his rolling pin. “I mean, maybe once its decorated,” he said diplomatically. “Here, pass me the cranberries?” 

Eliot passed the requested bowl, filled with craisins coated in cinnamon sugar and what looked like orange zest. Quentin sprinked the dried fruit liberally over his dough before rolling the whole rectangle into a log, quick and confident. God, Eliot was doing all he could not to drool over his forearms. Even with the changes since undergrad, there was something so  _ comfortable  _ about Quentin. Solid, but soft. Strong, but yielding. 

Jesus Christ– Eliot was a goner. 

“Anyway,” Quentin continued, seemingly unaware of Eliot’s lustful and tender thoughts. “I’m worried about the structure too. It’s really vertical.” 

Like a bucket of cold water, Quentin’s lack of confidence in Eliot’s first go at a design did wonders to rein in his libido.

“You think it won’t stand?” 

“It would be pretty top heavy,” Quentin said, using a pastry scraper to divide the log into perfectly even rolls—how did he do that without a ruler? “But that’s not even it. If it’s just four sides—not that it wouldn’t be elegant, like as a real building— but as a gingerbread showpiece, there’s not a lot of surface. You know, to do the Christmassy elements.” 

“Understated opulence is the hallmark of the  _ Royalty _ brand,” Eliot said, watching Quentin flick the cranberry cinnamon rolls into a massive greased baking tray. The whole thing was full in less than a minute. 

“I’m sure that looks great in steel and glass,” Quentin agreed amiably, wiping his hands on a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. “But gingerbread isn’t as pretty all on its own. The structure has to give us room to decorate or at this scale it’s going to look like it’s made out of cardboard. Here, look out behind—” 

Eliot had glanced back to his digital model, so he jumped a little when he felt the press of a warm, broad hand to the small of his back. 

“Coming through,” Quentin said apologetically, and Eliot realized that Quentin was just trying to squeeze past him with the tray of rolls bound the for the warm proving rack by the ovens, the casual touch of his hand far more innocent than Eliot’s pounding heart warranted. 

“Uh, yeah, sure. Sorry.” Eliot stepped forward against counter and suppressed a shiver as Quentin’s hand slipped away. Jesus, he needed to get laid. A perfunctory hand on the back from an old college buddy (that you had a massive crush on— _ shhhh shhh don’t think about that—)  _ was not supposed to make your heart stutter.  __

He swallowed, settling back in with his computer once Quentin had deposited his rolls on the large standing rack. 

“So, back to the drawing board, then,” he sighed. 

“Sorry, El,” Quentin said, draping a clean dish towel over the rolls for an overnight prove. “If you really like it we can give it a try—” 

“No, no, I see your point,” Eliot said, waving off Quentin’s apology. “I’m just not in the holiday mindset.” 

“We’ve got time,” Quentin said. “It’ll come.” 

Eliot flipped his laptop closed. When had he last tried to summon Christmas spirit beyond an extra order of eggrolls and a themed cocktail to mark the occasion? He knew the answer (twelve, not knowing it would be his last trip to Nana’s, his last chance to be safe in the warmth and good smells of the kitchen while he helped her cut out neat rows of gingerbread men) and he didn’t like to think about it.

“I hope so. Anyways, I’d rather hear it from you than from the judges.” 

It was barely five, because instead of coming by after dark Eliot made Quentin a real meeting with a calendar appointment and everything, but it was his last of the day. Eliot plucked his blazer off the stool he’d left it on while Quentin wiped down his counters and counted out the register. Based on their texting schedules Eliot had figured out that Q kept real bakers hours, in the shop every morning at four, but that meant closing came early as well.  _ Coldwater and Sons  _ was an old school operation that way. Eliot had plenty of time to get the train back to Tribeca before the cold really set in for the night. 

At least, that  _ was _ his plan, before Quentin flipped the sign on the front door from open to closed and said:

“Why don’t you stick around for dinner? Teddy and I were gonna order pizza.”

Eliot opened his mouth to say  _ thanks, but I should be going _ , then paused. What was urgently waiting for him at his apartment besides leftover Indian takeout and three hours of GBBO while he waited for Margo to get out of work and Skype? 

“Okay,” he said instead. “Sure, that sounds nice.” 

Quentin’s eyebrows rose, like he was surprised, and for a second Eliot wondered if that hadn’t been a good manners invitation that he was supposed to say no to. Then Quentin grinned, and Eliot wasn’t thinking about anything but how his eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled. 

“Great.” 

Thus commenced the surreal experience of Eliot going with Quentin to pick his son up from day-care. It was only a few blocks walk, and Quentin had a few errands to run. Eliot waited while he ran into the bank before it closed, and then they made a quick stop at a corner bodega because Teddy was out of juice at home. Eliot tagged along without much comment, enjoying the hectic domesticity of it all—not to mention the hipster cuteness of Quentin’s black jean jacket and beanie combo. He imagined this was every day for Q, squeezing in these little tasks when he could before going home with his son. It was probably a lot of stress more often than not, but Eliot—who had his groceries delivered and couldn’t tell you where to buy coffee anywhere that wasn’t a Starbucks—found it all horrifically charming, listening to Q exchange some broken Spanish with the teenager behind the counter at the bodega before they were bustling on to their next destination.

On the next block they passed by a liquor store and Quentin paused.

“Remember when we used to get wasted on Franzia?” Quentin said, something fond and nostalgic in his eyes. Eliot felt slightly queasy at the memory. 

“If you’re suggesting—” 

Quentin laughed. “Definitely not,” he said. “But maybe a bottle of red or something? We don’t have to—it’s just—I don’t get to eat food with other grownups too often.” 

“A fancy pizza night then,” Eliot agreed, grinning himself. “Lead the way.” 

They entered to the sound of a bell, and a cashier greeted them from behind a counter. 

“Can I help you find something?” he offered. Eliot was about to decline politely, when Quentin said: “Um, we’re looking for a red. Something fruit forward, and not too heavy? It’s just for dinner, so maybe in the fifteen dollar range?” 

Eliot raised his eyebrows as the worker bustled away looking for suggestions and Quentin shrugged with a self-conscious little grin. “I used to take Ari wine tasting, before we got married,” he said. “It was a budget-friendly date but felt fancy and, you know, you learn a few things if you’re paying attention.” 

“That is particularly adorable,” Eliot said, just to see Quentin blush. “Your game must have improved a lot since sophomore year.” 

“Ha, I wish,” Quentin said, leaning on the counter. “It was all my dad’s idea. He clearly thought I needed some coaching.” 

“Well, clearly it worked,” Eliot said, raising his eyebrows. Quentin laughed at that, and something relaxed in Eliot that had been wound a little tight ever since Quentin had mentioned his wife’s name. It wasn’t like he thought Quentin was going to burst into tears or anything, but given their first conversation before Halloween Eliot was maybe more wary than most when it came to treading in that territory.

Before they could talk more the cashier came back with three bottles to show them. There was a Cab Sauv that Quentin wrinkled his nose at, a Chianti he considered thoughtfully, and— 

“...and you might like to consider this Syrah, with lovely stone fruit and cherry notes. It’s a little more special occasion, but still a steal for the quality at twenty-four—” 

Quentin smiled, the polite refusal practically visible on his lips. “Oh, thank you, but that’s a little—”

“Actually, that sounds great,” Eliot interrupted, pulling out his wallet. “Can you ring it up for us?” 

Quentin frowned. “Eliot, you don’t have to—” 

“I know I don’t,” Eliot said, handing over his card to the cashier. “But let me treat us. Syrah is the perfect pairing with cheese and pepperoni. Grown up dinner, remember?”

Quentin looked like he was about to protest, then he deflated, a wry grin at his lips. 

“I forgot how bossy you could be,” he said, though his eyes glimmered. 

“I’m not sure how, considering what a pain in your ass I’ve been the last few weeks,” Eliot replied with a wink. Quentin gave him a chastising nudge with his elbow, and Eliot felt it all the way down to his toes. Fuck, but he’d missed this. 

“C’mon,” Quentin said once Eliot had the brown bagged bottle tucked into his arm. “We don’t want to be late getting Teddy.”

Teddy’s day-care, which he attended the two days a week he wasn’t at his half-day Universal Pre-k program, was run out of a Unitarian Church. 

“We’re not church people, or anything,” Quentin confided as they approached back door to the community center where various parents were picking up kids. “But it’s the best in the neighborhood. So, you know.”

“I honestly have no idea,” Eliot replied, but he nudged Q to show he was teasing as they stepped into a cheerfully painted hallway and talked to a woman bearing a clipboard and wearing her hair in lovely box braids. 

“Hi Veronica,” Quentin greeted her as he signed his name beside Teddy’s on the clipboard. “Was today a good day?” 

“Oh yes, he’s being his usual little chatterbox self,” Veronica replied, only fondness in her voice. Quentin seemed pleased to hear that. 

“Any birthdays this week?” he asked, which seemed a non-sequitur to Eliot, until Veronica said:

“Just one, but her mom already let me know she’s bringing cupcakes in, so don’t you trouble yourself.” 

“Okay, if you’re sure.” 

“You’re too sweet dear, but yes,” Veronica said. Then: “Who’s your friend?”

Quentin blinked, like he just remembered Eliot was there. “Oh, um—” 

“Eliot Waugh,” Eliot introduced himself, shaking her hand. “Do you need me to sign in somewhere?” 

“No, no, I’m just being nosy,” Veronica replied. “Are you single, Mr. Waugh?” 

Quentin sputtered, but Eliot only laughed. 

“I’m not attached, no,” he said. “But I imagine we bat for the same team, if you catch my drift.” 

“Oh, I wasn’t asking for me,” she replied, giving Quentin a look that had him turning bright red. 

“I’ll just grab Teddy, then,” he said, scurrying into the playroom. Eliot watched him go, feeling something warm and fluttery behind his breastbone. The last time he’d seen Quentin that flustered was after Alice Quinn kissed him in the stacks freshman year. The comparison was...encouraging, to say the least. 

Eliot looked down to find Veronica staring at him, one eyebrow raised. 

“Quentin is our favorite around here, you understand,” she said, her voice significantly less warm. “He’s been through a lot, and his little boy too.”

Eliot swallowed. “I know.”

“Don’t play around with them.”

It was Eliot’s turn to blush. “Oh, um, we’re not—” 

“Eliot!”

A small blue-parka clad form collided with Eliot’s knees. He kept his balance and looked down to see Quentin’s squinty eyed grin beaming up at him in miniature form. 

“Hey, Ted,” he said, ruffling the boy’s hair awkwardly. “Long time no see.” 

“Don’t be silly, I saw you last week!” 

“Oh, yeah. Time flies.” 

Quentin emerged from the playroom with a tiny backpack slung over his shoulder. He caught sight of Teddy with Eliot and sighed his relief. 

“Wow, he was excited when he heard you were here,” he told Eliot as he rejoined their party. “He’s fast enough to make me nervous when he takes off like that.” 

“We’re all good out here,” Eliot assured him, then to Teddy. “Ready for pizza?” 

“Yes,” Teddy declared, letting Quentin help him get his arms through the straps of his backpack. “Bye, Miss V!” 

“Bye, Teddy. See you Tuesday.” 

With one last friendly warning glare from Veronica Eliot was allowed to leave with Teddy and Quentin. He let them take the lead as they strolled the short walk back to the bakery and their second floor walkup, Teddy chatting excitedly about his day.

“Hey, hey Eliot!” he said suddenly, pulling away from Quentin. “You don’t like olives, do you?” 

“Teddy, whoa, buddy,” Quentin said, catching the hood of Teddy’s jacket. “Hold hands with a grown up when we’re on the busier streets, remember?”

“I want to hold hands with Eliot, then,” Teddy declared, already clinging to Eliot’s coat sleeve. 

“Ask Eliot if he’s okay with holding hands, first.” 

Good old Q, teaching consent early. Since overcoming his initial suspicions regarding his class loyalties Teddy seemed to have taken a liking to Eliot. It was probably just the novelty of having new grown up around, or the fact that this whole gingerbread house thing made his job sound a lot more magical than it was. Regardless, Teddy was a sweet kid, and Quentin seemed to find Eliot’s awkward attempts at conversation with his son charming, so he was trying his best. 

“I don’t mind, Ted,” he said, taking Teddy’s very small hand in his own. “Now what were you saying about olives?” 

“Dad’s gonna want them on the pizza,” Teddy informed him, wrinkling his nose. “But you don’t want them, do you?” 

“No, I think olives are gross,” Eliot assured him. “But I do like pepperoni.” 

“Perfect.” 

With that, they were in accord on pizza toppings. Another cool point for Eliot. He heard Quentin laugh, and when he looked up Q was looking back, some indescribable emotion on his face as they made their way to 69th street. 

Quentin got a little nervous once they got back to the bakery, and made their way upstairs via a door at the back of the kitchen. 

“Um, I was in the process of folding laundry, this morning, so no judging, okay?” he said, fumbling with his keys in the lock at the top of the stairs before letting them inside the apartment proper.

“Here, let me get him squared away, then we can order dinner,” Quentin said, leading Teddy down a short hallway that must have led to their bedrooms. That left Eliot alone to take in his surroundings. He set their bottle of wine on the kitchen/dining table and had a look around. 

It was clear a family lived here, small as it may be with just Quentin and Teddy. There wasn’t an excess of square footage, but it was all put to use in the way only city natives knew how. The kitchen was tiny, barely more than an efficiency, but it looked well used, pots and pans stacked above the cupboards with a careful but indecipherable order to them. The living room was mostly filled with a squishy couch and a matching armchair, with a colorful area rug on the floor (along with the promised basket of half folded laundry basket). The walls were nearly invisible, hidden behind tall shelves that were— maybe unsurprisingly, given Q’s interests in school— full of books. What little space there left was painted a soft gray, and covered in family photos. 

Eliot surveyed these while he listened to the low murmur of Quentin talking to his son down the hall. He recognized Ted Coldwater Senior, and a few early pictures of a woman who must be Quentin’s mother. On a lower shelf, just near the hallway (where someone might see it every time they walked past) was a picture of a woman in a hospital bed, holding a newborn. Quentin— looking a lot more like the kid Eliot remembered from school than he did now—beamed at her, and the little bundle in her arms that Eliot realized must be Teddy. So the woman, her striking red hair still damp with sweat and her face pale with exhaustion but so, so happy— she must have been Quentin’s wife. 

Quentin was right. Teddy  _ did _ look like Arielle. 

After a few moments, Eliot stepped away, feeling as if he were staring into a moment that wasn’t meant for him. He hung his peacoat on a free peg by the front door, and was toeing off his shoes just as Quentin came back out, Teddy’s coat slung over his arm. 

“Teddy’s deciding which of his dinosaurs he wants to show you, so prepare yourself mentally,” Quentin warned him with a grin, pulling off his beanie and tossing it into a basket by the door. He added Teddy’s coat to the rack next to Eliot’s, then hung up his jean jacket as well. It made a domestic little picture. 

“I like all this,” Eliot said, gesturing broadly at the space. “It’s cozy.” 

Quentin smiled, half a grimace as he put the juice from earlier in the fridge and pulled two wine glasses out of one of the taller cabinets. 

“Thanks. It was my dad’s, you know, once upon a time,” he said, cleary self-conscious. “I’m sure it’s kind of cramped, compared to your place—” 

Standing the glow of Quentin’s warm and comfortable  _ home _ , Eliot didn’t even want to think about his drafty loft. 

“I think it’s great, Q,” he said. “Really. It reminds me of my—” 

His grandmother’s name caught on his tongue. Quentin’s apartment didn’t really look anything like his Nana’s split level ranch, but there was a certain  _ feeling _ that tugged Eliot back to the few happy, safe times in his childhood. But that wasn’t really something he liked to think about. 

“It’s really nice, is all,” he said instead. “Any kid in the city would be lucky to come home to this place.” 

Eliot could swear Quentin was blushing as he set a waiter’s corkscrew printed with the logo of a local bar on the table next to their Syrah. 

“I do my best,” he said. “So, you know. Thanks.”

“Eliot!” came a call from down the hall. “Come see my room!” 

Eliot raised his eyebrows at Quentin, who only laughed at him. 

“Enjoy the dinosaur collection,” he said. “I’ll call in the pizza and come rescue you.” 

The rest of the evening played out in a similarly domestic fashion. Eliot saw the dinosaurs, then they all watched an episode of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (Quentin blessedly handed him a glass of wine for that portion of the evening), and then the pizza arrived. They sat at the table and ate off of leftover Halloween paper plates while Quentin and Eliot batted a few alternate gingerbread house designs around with Teddy helpfully interjecting from time to time (“You should do a pirate ship! Or a treehouse! Or Whitespire castle!”). 

At first Eliot didn’t notice when Teddy started to quiet down. He hardly noticed the passing of time at all, caught up in the minutiae of Quentin’s conversation, his eyes bright and his hands gesturing widely as he regaled Eliot with tales of his colorful cast of local clientele. Teddy was chipping in, an adorable copy in miniature of his dad’s mannerisms, until all at once it was seven-thirty and Ted was barely keeping his eyes open, determinedly still plucking bites of the second slice Quentin had cut up for him. 

“Day-care days tend to wipe him out.” 

Eliot blinked back to Q and saw him gazing at his son with the kind of paternal adoration Eliot had thought only existed in inspirational movies about golden retrievers. 

“‘M not sleepy,” Teddy insisted. Quentin rubbed his back, gently taking the fork out of his little grip with his other hand. 

“Of course you’re not, buddy. But it’s been a long day with all the fun you’ve been having, hm?” 

Teddy grumbled, already half asleep just from the slow movement of Quentin’s hand on his back, “‘Wanna stay up.... and play with Eliot.” 

Eliot blinked, then laughed, pivoting away from the tangle of feelings that accompanied the possibility of Quentin’s son being somehow emotionally  _ attached  _ to him. 

“He’s just like you after one too many rum and cokes, Q,” he stage whispered, nudging Quentin lightly under the table with the toe of his socked foot. Quentin gave him a slightly odd look, but smiled ruefully. 

“You have no idea.” Turning his attention back to Teddy he continued. “Eliot’s still here, Ted. Why don’t you go put your pj’s on, and maybe he can stay for a story before bed.” 

It spoke to how sleepy Teddy was that he shook his head, but slid off his chair and sauntered off his to his room without complaint. Eliot watched this charming scene play out with his chin resting on his hand. After a moment Quentin raised his eyebrows at him. 

“Something to add?” he asked, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

“Nothing,” Eliot said. “Only, I’m wondering at what point I stumbled into an episode of  _ Full House _ .” 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” 

It was quick work to tidy up the kitchen. Eliot magnanimously stacked up the three paper plates and put them in the trash while Quentin slid the leftover pizza on a plate bound for the fridge.

“Um, if you have to be somewhere, Teddy will probably be asleep before he notices you’re gone, but you could stay a minute, if you want?” Quentin said, wrestling with the saran wrap. “He’ll be out like a light in a second, I swear. We could have another half a glass of wine before you go.” 

Eliot rolled what was left of his current serving around the bottom of the glass. The Syrah had been lovely, not that he’d been paying much attention. Wine was a normal indulgence for him. Observing Quentin’s blissful sigh as he’d taken his first sip? Now that was hedonism. 

“Sure, I can hang around a bit.”

Teddy’s room was slightly smaller than Eliot’s walk-in closet, in the way that second bedrooms in Brooklyn tended to be, but it was as warm as the rest of the house. There was a dinosaur motif at play, but mixed in was plenty of  _ Fillory and Further. _ Eliot could hardly have expected less from Quentin’s offspring. Quentin was reading one of the Chatwin’s stories tonight, from a well-loved copy of  _ The Flying Forest _ that Eliot was pretty sure he would have recognized from the bookshelf in Quentin’s freshman dorm. Eliot leaned against the doorway, content to sip his second glass of wine and observe as Quentin folded himself up into the tiny twin bed to read with his son. 

“...and so King Rupert ordered all of Whitespire Castle to be decorated for Christmas. Of, course, Fillory had never exactly heard of Christmas, but they liked holly and garland as much as anyone else, and after the defeat of the dreaded Watcher Woman they all could have done with a bit of cheering up. Soon every inch of the castle was full of warm lights and good smells, and even Ember and Umber got in on the fun, sending a mild and magical snow to dust the whole outdoors in sparkling white—” 

“—what about the dragon?” Eliot heard Teddy ask. 

“Is there a dragon in Whitespire Castle?” Quenin asked with a smile. This was clearly not the first time Teddy had taken them off script as regarded Fillory canon. 

“There should be,” Teddy said. “With fearsome claws, and he breathes fire. But— um— he’s nice too.” 

“Okay, hm…” Eliot smiled as Quentin flipped a few pages forward, his brow furrowed in pretended concentration. “Ah, here it is. ‘And last but not least, they didn’t forget the friendly dragon who guarded the castle walls. Since he kept a roaring fire stoked in his belly, the snow didn’t bother him in the least, but he was very happy to be presented with his very own Christmas ham…”

Teddy gave a sleepy little giggle, snuggling further into Quentin’s arms. Eliot’s heart twinged when he watched Quentin drop a kiss on top of his son’s head before continuing. 

Maybe it was the wine—Eliot had had one glass— or maybe it was the absolutely sugar sweet scene he had just witnessed—more likely— but Eliot found himself saying a few minutes later, after Teddy had drifted off to sleep as promised: 

“You know, your house reminds me of my grandmother’s.” 

Quentin raised his eyebrows as he took a seat beside Eliot on the lumpy living room couch, his own refilled wine glass in hand. “Because my decor is out of date?” 

Eliot huffed a laugh, but shook his head. “Because it’s warm, and I can tell you bake up here. It smells like Christmas. I remember—” 

Eliot swallowed. 

“It was good there,” he said. “Safe. And I can tell Teddy feels safe here.” 

“El…” 

“She didn’t care— my grandmother, I mean— if I didn’t like the things boys were supposed to like,” he said. “I wanted an easy-bake oven for Christmas, and she knew I’d never get one, so she brought me in the kitchen and I baked with her instead.” 

Quentin’s brow furrowed. “Why couldn’t you have an easy-bake oven?” 

Eliot had to close his eyes and take a sip of wine. 

“Teddy is so lucky to have you,” he said when he had himself under control. “Really. I don’t know if you remember, but my dad wasn’t—” 

Quentin set his hand, warm and heavy, on Eliot’s knee. “Sorry,” he said. “It’s been a while, but I do remember. No easy-bake ovens.” 

“Yeah. So, uh, I know what I’m talking about,” Eliot said, the words awkward in his mouth. “I know it must be fucking hard, Q, but Teddy is lucky to have a home like this with you.” 

“It can be hard,” Quentin agreed. “But I wouldn’t give it up. Not a minute of it.” 

Quentin’s eyes were practically sparkling, a little sad, but so determined. It was like he was a knight on a quest, but Quentin’s Holy Grail was giving his son the best life he could. There were so many obstacles—he’d noticed the bills piled up on the side table, and the orange prescription bottle tucked away on a high shelf in the bathroom—but Eliot knew that look. Quentin would never give up, and it was a privilege to see even a glimmer of it. 

Eliot was pulled from his thoughts by the touch of Quentin’s hand. It wasn’t a particularly weighted touch—he didn’t want to read too much into it, just the light pressure of Quentin’s fingers circling his wrist—but Eliot had to focus on keeping his breathing even as Quentin turned the weight of his warm gaze on him.

“I’m really glad you came along when you did, El. This whole crazy gingerbread thing...it’s meant a lot.” 

Eliot hummed, his skin practically buzzing where Quentin was touching him. “It’s going to do a lot of good for the bakery, I’ll bet.” 

Quentin squeezes his wrist. “That too.” 

Eliot let that wash over him, tucking the tenderness of Quentin’s voice—the shape of the words on his lips—away in his heart. He set down his wine so he could put his own hand over Quentin’s and squeeze back, just for a moment. 

He took a beat, just to appreciate where he was, who he was with, before he said: “I should really get going. You probably have to get up early tomorrow, right?” 

Quentin—had he been looking at Eliot’s mouth?—blinked, before his intent gaze softened into something more relaxed. 

“I—yeah, you’re right,” he said. “That’s one good thing about having a toddler. I’m not usually up much later than he is.” 

The moment passed, Eliot let Quentin walk him to the door. Eliot slipped on his boots and coat, and Quentin walked him downstairs to the entrance of the bakery. After that there wasn’t much left to say except:

“Thanks for dinner.”

Quentin smiled, leaning against the door frame. 

“Thanks for staying,” he said. “It was nice to talk about something other than gingerbread.” 

“We’ll be back to it soon enough. I—“ Eliot took a step closer to his friend. “Q—“ 

Quentin met him halfway, wrapping his arms around Eliot’s waist in a tight hug. With a happy sigh, Eliot put his arms around Quentin’s shoulders and tucked his head where it fit perfectly under his chin. He squeezed, and Quentin—slim but solid and warm,  _ so  _ warm—pressed right up against the long line of his body as if they had been made to fit together.

Wow. 

Wow. 

_ Wow _ . 

His Uber pulled up, and that was that, but Eliot savored the ghost of Quentin’s touch all the way back to Tribeca.

~

“—and you wouldn’t believe how adorable this kid is, Bambi,” Eliot said as he worked at his drafting desk. Margo was on his tablet, leaning against the windowsill so they could talk while Eliot labored over his new design. Watching Quentin read to his son had popped something into Eliot’s brain. He couldn’t sleep until he had at least a sketch down, and paper was easier than booting up all his software. Margo, three hours earlier on the West Coast, was helping him burn the midnight oil. 

“Q’s kid? Oh I think I can imagine,” she said, laughing with a glass of wine in hand. The LA sunset was deep orange behind her. “It’s you I can’t believe, Mr. ‘No kids, never in a million years, Margo’.” 

Eliot sputtered. “Hey, now, I stayed for dinner one time and hovered awkwardly while Quentin read a bedtime story. I’m hardly playing dad. He’s cute is all, like that Lipnicki kid was cute in  _ Jerry McGuire _ .”

“God you’re old.” 

“We’re the same age, Bambi, so tread carefully.”

“How about Q?”

Eliot traced a careful curve with his compass. This line needed to hug the contour of the outer walls just so…

“Quentin? What about him?” he remembered to ask.

“Is he still cute?”

Eliot sighed deeply. “It’s even worse than that. He’s  _ hot _ , Margo. Like paternal, masculine, ‘I knead bread dough for a living and you can tell by my forearms’ levels of hot. My uterus is glowing.” 

“I’ll bet.”

“It’s all I can do to stay professional when what I want to be doing is licking frosting and other substances off his cute little baker’s apron.”

“So bang him.” 

He winced. “Anybody else, and it would be a done deal.”

“What makes Q so special?” Margo asked, with the callousness that came easily with the distance of three time zones. “It’s been ten years, El. You’re basically strangers, and if not he had a crush on you that was visible from space, so it’s almost definitely a sure thing.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Eliot kept his eyes on his ruler, fishing around his tray for a smaller micron pen to trace over his pencil lines. 

“What’s gotten into you? I’ve never seen you so precious over the risks of a one night stand.”

“Well maybe I don’t want a one night stand.” 

Eliot was surprised at the sharp tone of his own voice. 

“Bambi, I don’t know,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “Q was our friend, once upon a time, and now I need to work with him at least through December, and...I don’t know. The guy’s a  _ widower _ , okay, and he has a— a kid. A cute kid. So I can’t pretend we just ran into each other at a club, you know?”

Margo hummed, skeptical, but didn’t push him on the topic. He let her fill him in on her latest office gossip—Selene wouldn’t stop trying to give out dream crystals, which was exactly the kind of California nonsense Eliot was looking forward to— until he had as complete a drawing as he was going to get without falling asleep. 

“Here—” Eliot picked up his tablet, and switched the camera so Margo could see his desktop. “What do you think? Is it magical enough?” 

“Hm…” Margo squinted at his new design. “Half Hogwarts, half Chrysler building. But not bad.” 

Eliot laughed. “I’ve gotten worse reviews.”

After some more banter Eliot sent Margo off to bed, and snapped a quick pick of his new design to send Quentin. He didn’t expect an answer until morning, but the bubbles of Quentin’s reply came right away. 

_ E: *new picture message sent* _

_ Q:... _

_ Q:!!!! _

_ Q: Amazing, El. Teddy is going to lose his mind when he sees it.  _

_ E: Can we build it in real life?  _

_ Q:... _

_ Q: Let’s find out. Free for a test run Friday night? Julia can stay with Teddy. _

_ E: Baking on a Friday night, just like old times. Should I bring a handle of Fireball? _

_ Q: Not unless you want me to puke on sight #RIP2009Q _

Eliot laughed. See, Margo? He could do this. Having Quentin back in his life was enough. He didn’t need to go messing things up with sex. 

~

Okay, well, best laid plans and all that. 

Eliot actually had a full day at the office, so they couldn’t get started Friday until he made it out to Brooklyn around seven with his templates. Quentin was waiting with three chilled batches of gingerbread dough and as much clear counter space as he could muster, and then they were off. 

Quentin was like a machine, tracing out the intricate shapes in dough with a sharp knife faster than Eliot could transfer his templates onto wax paper and pass them over. Cookie sheets flew in and out of the oven like a dance. Then came assembly, the fraught passage of trial and error that tested Eliot as much as any real construction might have. They were doctoring templates on the fly, Eliot stumbling through cutting and baking improved pieces while Quentin literally held walls together with just his hands and a serene kind of patience that only came from intricate pastry decoration or fatherhood. 

Between both of their expertise it was almost midnight when they finally had a full model at one third scale. 

“Jesus,” Quentin sighed, stepping back carefully from their structure. Some icing still shone wet, not quite set. The slightest seismic event could topple the whole thing. 

“No more turrets?” he asked Eliot. “Any more asymmetrical roof elements you want to add?” 

Eliot shook his head. “It’s got everything I could think of. We did it.” 

Nothing was decorated but the bones were there. Eliot had designed—and Quentin had built— a castle, complete with a steepled roof, spires, and a low wall that would have a sleeping sugar sculpture dragon sleeping along its curve. It was certainly a more storybook interpretation of the  _ Royalty _ brand, but Eliot couldn’t imagine Tick would have many complaints if they could pull it off to scale. 

They both stared at the fruit of their labors, their breathing a little heavy, as though they’d just run a marathon.

“Okay,” Eliot said, breaking the silence. “Not to pat myself on the back or anything—” 

“This is gonna be pretty spectacular, isn’t it?” Quentin finished his thought for him, looking over at Eliot with a competitive gleam in his eye. 

“Who knows what the other guys are cooking up,” Eliot said, a little giddy with the cautious optimism of it all. “But there’s no way we aren’t at least a contender.” 

“We’ve gotta—” Quentin wiped his hands on the towel on his shoulder, and plucked a pencil from his ear to start scribbling things on the edge of Eliot’s stencil remnants. “I’ve gotta check on my candy sources next. I’ve got all icing sugars in all the colors we might need, but there were these sprinkles last year, shaped like little holly leaves that I think would be perfect for—”

“Q.” Eliot loosened his tie a little, leaning back against a free counter. His jacket had long been discarded, though he hadn’t taken Quentin up on his offer of an apron. “Take a minute. We did good here.” 

Quentin looked up, nibbling on the end of his pencil. “I know, it’s just—” 

Eliot glanced down to the ever present distraction that was Quentin’s mouth, and laughed when he saw Quentin had a smear of powdered sugar on his chin. It must have been left from the second batch of royal icing Quentin had had to whip up earlier. They’d been so deep in it that Eliot hadn’t even noticed. 

Quentin’s eyebrows furrowed. “What?”

Eliot shook his head, moving closer to lean on Quentin’s section of counter instead. “It’s nothing, just that you’ve just got a little—” 

Eliot gestured to his face, his cheeks warm with their success and with the general pleasure of having Quentin in proximity. His lips pursed adorably, Quentin tried to wipe the powdered sugar off his chin to no avail. After letting him struggle for a few seconds Eliot touched the pad of his thumb to his tongue and rubbed the smudge of white away himself. 

“Hopeless,” he said, grinning. 

It took the sound of Quentin’s pencil hitting the countertop for Eliot to realize he was like  _ intimately _ touching Quentin’s face, and that maybe that would be unwelcome. He went to pull his hand away, but Quentin caught him by the wrist.

Eliot imagined his heart stopped and started again. 

Quentin stared at his own hand, then back at Eliot almost like he was surprised by his own movement, but there was pink flush rising in his cheeks that set something thudding behind Eliot’s breastbone. 

“I, um— hey.” Quentin’s thumb stroked over Eliot’s pulse. Eliot cupped Quentin’s jaw in his hand. 

“Hey,” Eliot said back, then he leaned in and kissed him.

It was a quick thing, light and soft and Eliot wanted more. He wanted more so bad but he made himself pull back because he could be reading this all wrong and Eliot had spent a lifetime learning to position himself defensively. It would hurt less that way, to hold back, if this was going to have to be a quick pivot to  _ wow, great job baking together! Haha its me remember, your totally platonic gay friend with no personal boundaries—  _

“Whatever you’re thinking,” Quentin said, in response to the no doubt absolutely stricken look on Eliot’s face. “You’re wrong.” 

Then he tugged Eliot’s face down and they were kissing again and every coiled up inch of Eliot unspooled with utter fucking  _ relief _ .  __

It was 0-60. No awkward fumbling, no accidental lip biting or teeth clacking—or maybe there was, and Eliot just couldn’t find it in himself to care. His normal suave tricks went out the window because this was  _ Quentin,  _ and Quentin was a greedy kisser, to Eliot’s delight, and he was so willing to give. 

Eliot tugged the dirty apron up over Quentin’s head—primary fantasy of the last two months  _ achieved _ — and backed him into the far counter. He licked into his mouth, eager, and groaned helplessly when Quentin got both hands on his ass and squeezed. 

“Oh fuck,” Eliot breathed, pushing his hips into Quentin’s, feeling him half hard through their pants. He wanted— he wanted so much— “Is this okay?” 

Eliot had to know. He— if Quentin wasn’t ready, he’d stop, of course he would— but he needed to know  _ now _ . 

“Yes, Jesus,  _ yes _ —” Thank  _ fuck _ , and then— “I’ve been wanting it El. I—I always wanted you so bad—” 

Eliot had to pause, to drop his face into the crook of Quentin’s neck and breathe because  _ oh my god _ . 

“Good,” he said nonsensically, his hands shifting up and down over Quentin’s ribs. “Yes. Okay.” 

Eliot kissed Quentin’s shoulder, then his throat, then his mouth. Then his mouth again, because it was perfect. Quentin’s mouth was perfect for kissing, and how did Eliot hold out even this long? 

“I’m going to make you feel so good.” Eliot decided, still mesmerized by Quentin’s mouth. By his hips, so good and firm and slim in Eliot’s hands. He pressed their foreheads together and tried to remember to breathe. “I’m going to take care of you.” 

Quentin gasped against his lips. 

“Can I? Will you let me?” Eliot pleaded. 

Quentin exhaled, shaky, but he nodded. 

“ _ Please _ .” 

Eliot cupped the back of Quentin’s neck in one hand. He kissed him, long and slow and deep, until they both had to gasp for air. Then Eliot sank to his knees. 

“Help me,” Eliot demanded, his mouth already watering while he tugged at the fastenings of Quentin’s jeans. Quentin—eyes wide, dark, and disbelieving— scrambled to help get his fly open, to get his pants down past his knees and his boxers after that and then— 

“You—you don’t have to,” Quentin stammered, and  _ as if,  _ Eliot wanted to say. Quentin’s hands were already cradling the back of Eliot’s head, guiding him exactly where he wanted him to go. 

“Q,” he said instead, swallowed back the words that would surely set Quentin running. “Q…” 

Eliot nuzzled into the sweet thin skin of Quentin’s inner thigh, the wiry dark hair on Quentin’s calves under his palms and his dick getting hard against his cheek. Eliot thought he might be dreaming, that his whole life was a lie and he was just a nineteen year old co-ed in his dorm fantasizing about sucking off his best friend, who was now somehow a baker and a sexy widower and  _ God  _ Eliot needed to stop thinking– 

Quentin’s fingers threaded through Eliot’s hair. He looked up at him, at his friend, pupils blown, lips parted, looking for all the world like he would die if Eliot didn’t do something, and quick.

_ Fuck _ . 

“Q, I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you.” 

Quentin  _ whimpered _ , his hands in Eliot’s hair going tight, and that was all the cue Eliot needed. He got a grip on him, stroking him hard, and then Eliot sealed his mouth over the head of Quentin’s cock like he’d been waiting to do for weeks. 

“Oh sweet fuck—” 

Eliot steadied himself with his hands on Quentin’s hips and got to work, licking under the head and then taking Quentin deeper until he could feel the thickness of him on the back of his tongue when he hollowed his cheeks. Quentin liked that, tossing his head back and spreading his feet farther apart. Eliot swallowed around him, just to  _ really  _ hear him moan.

“Eliot– so good– oh my  _ God–” _

It was good.  _ Perfect _ . Quentin fit so right in his mouth, and the  _ sounds _ he made. Jesus, how many times had Eliot jerked off to this in college? He was sucking Quentin Coldwater’s cock, and it was better than he’d ever imagined. 

“You feel so  _ good _ .” Quentin still had his fingers knit in Eliot’s hair. He was trembling already under Eliot’s grip, his cheeks flushed when Eliot looked up to hold his gaze. 

He needed Quentin to see how much he loved this. How bad he’d been  _ wanting  _ him. Their eyes met, and Eliot saw his same wanting mirrored back at him. That and the warmth of Quentin’s body held so close, the scent of him, the  _ taste  _ of him—Eliot moaned as he pressed a hand to his own erection straining against the front of his pants, as if he just couldn’t help himself (because he couldn’t) and Quentin’s knees nearly buckled. 

“El— _ fuck,  _ Eliot—if you don’t stop I’m gonna come—” 

Eliot pulled off, but replaced his mouth with his hand with barely a breath in between. Quentin bit his lip, chest heaving from the effort.

“That’s what I’m aiming for here,” he said, trying for a lascivious grin and ending up somewhere closer to breathless. 

“Just—” Quentin laughed, a hot, strangled thing. “—shit, not yet. We’re in a  _ commercial  _ kitchen—” 

Eliot wasn’t convinced, and he gave Quentin an extra slow jerk to demonstrate his skepticism. Quentin’s head hit the cabinet with a  _ thunk  _ as he groaned. 

“Oh my god—okay, no.” Quentin caught Eliot’s wrist before he could jerk him off right there in his place of business. Eliot pretended to pout, but let Quentin settle for a moment, his breath shuddering before he managed to continue. “Come on, upstairs.” 

For safety’s sake, Eliot helped Quentin back into his pants so that they could better stumble up the stairs to Quentin’s apartment, giggling and kissing on the landing like they were in some sort of romantic comedy. Considering he just had him in his mouth in the middle of a working bakery, Quentin letting him feel him up under his very dad-ish half-zip sweatshirt shouldn’t have felt that racy, but Eliot was practically gagging for it as he pressed Quentin back against his own front door. 

Finally,  _ finally,  _ Quentin just took him by the hand and led him into his bedroom. 

“Sorry I didn’t make the bed.”

“That’s fine.”

Eliot watched in a stupor as Quentin kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it away before taking Eliot’s face between his two hands and kissing him like his very existence depended on it. 

_ God,  _ what had happened to the sweet, bumbling Q who couldn’t flirt his way out of a paper bag in college?

Quentin steered him to the side of the bed, sitting him down and climbing onto his lap to continue their kiss. Eliot got two handfuls of his ass and squeezed, drawing a moan from his lips that made Eliot twitch in his pants. Quentin ground down, and Eliot remembered how close he had been to the edge just a few minutes ago. 

“Q–you want me to—”

“No, no—I mean, I  _ do,  _ but I won’t last,” Quentin half laughed as he tipped himself to the side, still in Eliot’s lap, to rummage through his nightstand drawer to hand Eliot a half empty bottle of lube. “But I thought you could—if you want— just, you know, between my thighs—”

“I definitely want that,” Eliot said, with an impressive level of coherency. 

He glanced down at the little white bottle of lube Quentin had given him. It was KY– water based, definitely not something he would use to fuck him. Eliot wondered how long Q had had it, if it had been...

“Me too—” Quentin laughed again, drawing Eliot out of his thoughts. “Jesus  _ fuck,  _ Eliot I really want you to—”

“I’ve never heard you swear this much,” Eliot said, putting thoughts pertaining to the obvious reason Quentin had female-preferred lube in his nightstand out of his mind and instead gazing wondrous as Quentin stood and tugged off his boxers and tossed them aside. 

“Yeah, well, I’m usually within proximity to a four-year old who’s prone to repeating words he hears at home.” 

Eliot shed his own shirt and reached a hand out, running it down Quentin’s bare side as he shed his t-shirt. “That sounds like a specific lesson to have learned.” 

Quentin laughed, once, covering his face with his hands. 

“Yeah,” he said. “It definitely was. But—you know—another time.” 

“Another time,” Eliot agreed, pulling Quentin back down to the bed and encouraging him to lie back. Quentin tugged him in close and slanted their mouths together and holy hell, but that was good stuff. 

“How do you want it?” Eliot asked, chest already heaving a little by the time they parted, lips slick and hands wandering. 

Q uentin pawed a little at the waistband of his slacks. “You could get these off, for starters.”

“I am a bit overdressed for this.”

Quentin grinned. “What else is new?”

Eliot smacked him playfully on the shoulder as he sat back on his heels to unbutton his pants, kicking his legs out to awkwardly pull them and his briefs off and toss them over the side of the bed. Definitely not his most suave moment. He was going to make a comment on his own clumsiness when he looked back at Quentin who had sat up, his lips parted and his gaze hungry on Eliot’s cock.

Another time, Eliot thought. Another time, and  _ better lube, _ and oh, what Eliot could do to a man who looked at him like that. 

Quentin wet his lips, voice trembling. “You still wanna…?”

Eliot kissed his open mouth, pressing their finally completely naked bodies together. Quentin relaxed, and Eliot leaned their foreheads together, sharing his breath. 

“You have no idea how much,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to Quentin’s temple. 

He urged Quentin to turn over onto his hands and knees, retrieving the lube and pouring a generous amount in his hand. He warmed it around his fingers but Quentin still shivered when Eliot smoothed it over his cock, giving it a few firm strokes before sliding back, coating him completely down to his inner thighs. He slicked himself up, enjoying the view before him.

Quentin groaned when Eliot braced a hand against his lower back and the other on his hip.

“Put your legs together for me, baby?” Eliot said, breathless, as he stroked down Quentin’s thigh. Was it too early for pet names? Obviously Quentin didn’t think so, gripping the iron headboard and following Eliot’s instructions to the letter. 

Another application of lube and then Eliot was sinking into the tight space between Quentin’s thighs, sighing when he drew back out and brushed over Quentin’s balls, sending a shudder through him. 

Quentin sank down, laying his head against the pillow– mouth open, thoroughly in bliss. 

Eliot could relate. He picked up his pace. It felt amazing. It felt like  _ fucking _ . 

More amazing than the sensation was  _ Quentin,  _ moaning and pawing at the sheets like he couldn’t believe it. Eliot hadn’t even touched his cock yet and Quentin looked wrecked, debauched,  _ fucking beautiful–  _

“Oh my God–El–” Quentin panted. “You can,  _ fuck,  _ you can go faster–”

Eliot leaned forward as much as their current position allowed, reaching down to thread his fingers in Quentin’s hair, not pushing or pulling, just feeling. He bit his lip as Quentin tightened his perfect legs, being so good for him, making him feel so good–but– 

It wasn’t enough, Eliot couldn’t get  _ close  _ enough this way. And more than anything–more than promotions or gingerbread house contests or mind-numbing pleasure–Eliot wanted to be close to Quentin. 

With no idea what tomorrow might bring, Eliot decided to go for broke. 

He backed away, taking Quentin by the shoulder and urging him to flip on his back. Quentin followed easily, watching with parted lips and a heavy gaze as Eliot rearranged his legs and applied more lube. 

“I wanted to see you, baby,” Eliot said, his words coming quicker than his brain could process them. “Want to see you come.”

“El–”

But whatever Quentin was going to say was cut off when Eliot sank between his thighs once more, holding his knees together and close to Quentin’s body. Eliot smiled and tossed his hair away from his face as Quentin’s lost it to the sensation. This way was better for both of them, a little gravity could work wonders, and he wanted to make Quentin fall apart, wanted to show him how desperate he was for him, how crazy he made him– 

Eliot dipped down. Like this they could kiss. It was a little strained, a little awkward, but so worth it for Eliot to taste the pleasure right off of Quentin’s lips as he fucked up behind his balls. 

“El—” Quentin had his hand on his cock, the other gripping Eliot’s shoulder, working himself urgently. “El, I’m gonna come.” 

Eliot fit his hand around Quentin’s. “Good.” 

Eliot fucked him through it, watching Quentin’s eyes go wide and then fall shut as his back arched off the bed and he spilled over both of their hands. He sighed Eliot’s name and  _ God  _ Eliot wanted to come this way, between Quentin’s legs and with his come slicking the way, his name still on his lips and his hands clinging to him– 

It only took a few more seconds. Quentin ran his fingers through his hair as Eliot chased his pleasure, holding onto him, keeping him close. Eliot came in the middle of a kiss, gasping Quentin’s name against his lips as he shuddered and spent between his thighs. 

Quentin went tense around him as Eliot finished, and then it was like both their strings were cut at the same time, and they dissolved into a sweaty and sated pile of limbs. 

“Fuck.” 

It was possibly the happiest expletive Eliot had ever heard, and he grinned against Quentin’s temple. 

“‘Fuck’ is right,” Eliot said, pressing a kiss there as well—because he could, because Quentin  _ wanted _ him to— “Wow, Q.” 

Quentin laughed, a little giddy. “I know.” 

They kissed a little, a sweet pause just to let their breath settle and enjoy the afterglow. Quentin really loved being kissed, Eliot learned. He couldn’t help his lovely little sighs as Eliot learned the contours of his mouth with his tongue. God, Eliot wanted those sounds on tape. He wanted to turn them into a ten hour white noise track and fall asleep to them every night. 

Quentin’s brow furrowed adorably when Eliot settled them into a few last chaste presses of lips, clearly looking for more. 

“We’re going to be bad sticky in a minute if we don’t clean up,” Eliot said with great reluctance. (He was enjoying the caveman feelings of Quentin being a mess, sue him.) Quentin pouted, and Eliot at least took comfort in him feeling the same way. 

A quick rinse in the shower turned out to be a better alternative to the whole damp washcloth routine, and then with only brief hesitation Eliot followed Quentin right back into bed. Quentin gave a happy little wiggle as Eliot tucked himself up behind him, wrapping his arm over his waist and kissing his bare shoulder. 

Quentin leaned away, just for a minute, to turn out the bedside lamp. Eliot could just make out a framed photo by the switch before the room was plunged into near darkness. It was two people, one in a white dress. Quentin’s wedding photo. 

Eliot nuzzled into the back of Quentin’s neck when he settled in again, his thoughts meandering absently over photographs, and red hair, and KY in the nightstand. 

“Q,” he asked after a moment in the weird intimacy of the dark room.

“Yeah?” Quentin sounded sleepy. He got sleepy after sex.  _ So cute _ . 

“Um, I’m realizing this is none of my business,” Eliot continued. “But. Was that your first time, you know, since…” 

Quentin’s shoulders went a little tense under his hands. For a moment Eliot thought he might not answer him. But then… 

“Yeah,” he said, barely a whisper. “Why, is that weird for you?” 

“No!” Eliot said, a little too quick and a little too loud in the silent bedroom. “I mean, uh, no. No, Q, I’m—I’m honored, I guess.” 

Another beat of silence, and then Quentin let out a helpless giggle. 

“Okay,” he said, still laughing. “Now  _ that  _ made it weird.” 

“Hey—” 

Quentin rolled over so their heads were on the same pillow. Eliot could practically  _ feel _ his smile in the dark, so he knew Quentin wasn’t actually upset with him. 

“You’re  _ honored _ ,” he repeated, slinging his arm over Eliot’s waist. 

Eliot rolled his eyes, grinning despite himself. “Alright, alright. Fuck me for making sure, you know, you’re okay and everything.” 

Quentin hummed, his thumb drawing circles at the small of Eliot’s back. That felt nice if, you know, little tender moments were your kind of thing. 

“You’re sweet to ask,” Quentin said at last, snuggling in so his head was on Eliot’s chest. “But I’ll let you know if I want to talk about Arielle. Or if I’m not okay, yeah?” 

Eliot swallowed. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Quentin sighed, and nuzzled into Eliot’s pec. 

“This was great, though,” he said, sleepy again. 

Eliot pet his fingers through Quentin’s hair, just the once. “I thought so too.”

“Next time, I want you to really fuck me,” Quentin exhaled, voice dreamy as he drifted towards sleep. His words echoed in Eliot’s mind like a gong. 

Next time. 

Next time.

_ Next time _ . 

“Yeah, Q,” Eliot promised, kissing the top of his head. “Anything you want.” 

But Quentin was already asleep. 

~

Eliot woke up to the most amazing smell of baking bread. He also woke up alone. Only mildly panicked, he sat up—in Quentin’s bed!— and checked his messages. Nothing, and it was only seven-thirty. When he slid his hand over to Quentin’s side of the bed the sheets were cold. He didn’t hear him moving around the house, or in the bathroom. 

Did Eliot somehow fuck up so badly in the last six hours that Quentin had literally fled his own home? 

Distantly, Eliot heard the chime of the bell at the entrance to the bakery, and he twigged to the reason for the delicious smell of baked goods practically wafting up through the floorboards, and for his lack of morning snuggles. Quentin was at work. 

As if on cue, Eliot heard footsteps on the stairs and the door to the apartment open. 

“El? I have coffee.” 

_ Thank god _ . 

“I’m coming!” 

Eliot scrambled out of bed and found his underwear. And then slipped on his button down from the night before. 

“Is Teddy with you?” he called, considering the rest of his clothes scattered on the floor. 

“No, he’s out Christmas shopping with Julia.” 

Okay, then. This was dressed enough. Eliot popped into the bathroom to see about a spare toothbrush. He found some mouthwash and compromised. Morning breath was held at bay, at least. 

He ventured out to the main room to find Quentin already dressed for the day, his hair up in a cute little bun and traces of flour on his navy long sleeve t-shirt. There was a steaming mug on the table, and a blueberry muffin on a napkin. 

“Um...hi.” 

Quentin emerged from where he’d been rummaging around in the fridge, a carton of half and half in hand. He didn’t seem bothered by Eliot’s state of undress if the way his gaze traced up Eliot’s legs was any indication. 

“Hi,” he said, cheeks going pink. So cute. He put the cream on the table, and circled around, stepping in close. Eliot, his own cheeks warm, stepped even closer. 

“Sorry you, uh, woke up alone,” Quentin said, fiddling with the open buttons of Eliot’s shirt. Eliot reached out to smudge some flour off of Quentin’s collar. 

“I figured it out,” Eliot replied. “Do you need to be back downstairs?” 

Quentin shook his head, looking at Eliot’s mouth. 

“I took care of the morning punchlist. Benedict can handle things for a while as long as I’m back for the rush at nine.” 

“Ok. That’s good.” Eliot darted his tongue out to wet his lips, and that seemed to spur Quentin into action. Slowly— in fits and starts—he leaned in, and Eliot leaned down and fit his hand to the back of Quentin’s neck. They shared a little smile— laughing at their own awkwardness—before their lips met. 

It was a nice kiss, so was the one that followed. And the one after that. Nothing too heavy, just a nice “good morning, we kiss now btw” kind of thing, with Quentin’s arms circled around Eliot’s waist and Eliot rubbing his thumb in little circles behind Quentin’s ear. Nice. 

“You should have your coffee,” Quentin said after a minute, kissing Eliot one more time. “And then we should probably talk a little, yeah?” 

Eliot frowned. “Um, okay?” 

“Nothing bad,” Quentin assured him. “Just a check in.” 

“Okay, sure.” 

They settled down at the table, Eliot’s brain waking up a little more with the application of caffeine. Quentin’s chair was pulled in close to his, their feet tucked together under the table, so Eliot didn’t think this was a  _ thanks but no thanks _ kind of “talk” but he was nervous nonetheless as Quentin began to speak. 

“Um, I just want to make sure—I mean, it’s not like I think you would ever, but still—” Quentin paused, his churning thoughts written all over his face. 

“I think what I’m trying to say is—in case you haven’t, you know, guessed,” he continued. “Is that I kind of really need this gingerbread thing to work out. I’m not—not in, like,  _ immediate _ financial trouble or anything, but if we do well, then maybe for once I wouldn’t just be treading water all the time. And last night was really  _ really _ great and I want to do it again, but if it’s going to make things weird, then I have to think about the shop, and about what’s best for Teddy long term—” 

“Q.” Quentin paused his ramble when Eliot took his hand. “I don’t think it’s going to make things weird.” 

“No?” 

Eliot shook his head. “No.”

“Okay.” Quentin exhaled. Clearly his morning of baking had been a stressful one. “It’s just, you know, this is your job, too. I don’t want you to feel like—”

“I’m not feeling anything like that,” Eliot assured him. “Quentin, I think we’re both adults capable of being professional about building a giant gingerbread house together even if we’re also having sex.” 

Quentin tilted his head thoughtfully. 

“Having sex...and?” he prompted, eyes hopeful. 

“And kissing?”

His eyes narrowed. “Anything else?”

Eliot swallowed. “We should probably save our overthinking for the gingerbread house.” 

Quentin’s expression shuttered, and Eliot nearly leaped off out of his chair to interject “ _ But _ —”

Quentin froze, something fragile and cautious in his gaze. 

“But I was thinking,” Eliot continued, stomach full of butterflies. “We could also try falling asleep in each other’s arms now and then after a long day? And maybe in this scenario you’ve had to loan me one of your old t-shirts to sleep in and it smells like you and I get the best rest I’ve had in years. I’m just, uh, spitballing. You know. If you’re into that kind of thing.” 

“Okay,” Quentin said. Then he came and sat in Eliot’s lap, so  _ ding ding ding _ we have a winner, ladies and gentlemen. Feeling light with relief, Eliot tipped Quentin’s chin down for a kiss, and then they were off to the races. 

They were well into making out when Eliot’s phone buzzed with a text. When he saw it was from Margo he put the device back on the table. He didn’t want to hear about Margo’s work shenanigans right now. He didn’t want to think about work, or Los Angeles, or the future. 

Right now there was only one place Eliot wanted to be, and it was right here with Quentin.


	3. December

On their first day of install in the casino, Eliot found that he was politely not invited to assist with the construction of the final product. 

“Listen, I promise, when I’m trying to tile the roof in Necco wafers it’s gonna be all hands on deck,” Quentin assured him kindly but firmly, a massive piping bag full of royal icing in one hand. “But El, this isn’t fun baking time. This is architecture, and these walls have gotta stay up.” 

Eliot raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “I’m an  _ architect,  _ you know.” 

“Do you help the contractors pour concrete for your hotel foundations?” 

Eliot pouted. “No.”

Quentin grinned. “Then my point stands. Come back in two hours and you’ll see a castle, I swear.” 

Eliot sighed. “Fine. But I’m taking Teddy with me, and I’m giving him all the sugar he wants.” 

But Quentin was already focused on glueing together the two walls that Benedict was holding steady, uninterested in Eliot’s dramatics.

“On your own head be on it,” he said, blowing Eliot a kiss. Eliot rolled his eyes and pretended his cheeks weren’t warm. Quentin was so fucking  _ cute  _ even when he was kind of being a bitch."

“C’mon Ted,” Eliot declared. “Hot chocolate is on me.” 

Teddy, set up for the long haul with a wide selection of coloring books and plastic dinosaurs, practically threw his crayons to the ground. 

“Yay!” 

Eliot smiled. What a kid Quentin had made. 

With time to burn, Eliot and Teddy took a circuitous route through the casino’s shopping center on their way to the Starbucks in the front lobby. They were well into the Christmas season, and all the stores were dripping in festive decor. Teddy stopped to comment on more than one display, admiring a window done up like a wintry forest—complete with cute little woodland creatures—and one filled with vintage toys (Eliot caught sight of an Easy Bake Oven at the corner of the window and gently encouraged Teddy to move on before too many memories caught up with him.) All in all, Eliot was pleased to see that Quentin’s kid would grow up with innocence, able to marvel at beautiful things without ridicule. 

They were nearly to Starbucks when Teddy gave a little gasp. “Look!” 

Teddy took off at a run, and for once Eliot understood why Quentin was so adamant about Teddy holding his hand on busy streets because the five seconds where Eliot lost sight of Quentin’s son were some of the most terrifying of his life. Fortunately, he didn’t go far. A group of tourists passed Eliot by and once they cleared he spotted Teddy just a few yards away in front of a display of Christmas ornaments. 

“Teddy, hey,” Eliot said, his heart settling as he caught up to him. “Remember your dad’s rules. Don’t walk away from the grownups if we can’t see you.” 

Teddy blinked, as if he’d just realized Eliot wasn’t right behind him. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “But I saw these, and I have to get one for Dad!” 

They were just outside a store that looked like it was just dedicated to the casino logo and Christmas. A souvenir shop, more than any of the boutiques they had passed by.

“I always get him a Christmas ornament,” Teddy explained. “And then next year we put it on the tree! Look at this one!” 

It was a testament to Quentin’s parenting that Teddy didn’t actually try to grab one of the frosted glass ornaments off of the fake tree. Instead, he reached out to carefully touch the object of his excitement with starry eyes. Eliot had to bend down to get a look at it himself. It was a little gingerbread house, simple and classic with red and white peppermint decorations and sugar snow on the roof. The name of the casino was inscribed on the front along with the year. 

“Oh, cute,” Eliot agreed. “Just like your dad is putting together for the contest, right?” 

“It’s perfect,” Teddy declared with a reverent hush to his words. “We can put it on the tree and remember every year.” 

_ God bless us every one _ , Eliot couldn’t help but think. Still, he thought again how amazing it was that Teddy still saw the world with such a sense of wonder. 

_ He’s four _ , Eliot reminded himself.  _ This is how kids are  _ supposed  _ to be. You just had a fucked up childhood _ . 

Suddenly—as if he’d heard Eliot’s thoughts—the sparkle left Teddy’s eyes, and he frowned. 

“Uh, what’s up, buddy?” Eliot wasn’t exactly sure what he would do if this turned into a four-year-old meltdown in the middle of a four star hotel/casino, especially since Quentin was three hallways away and  _ Oh don’t worry, this isn’t my kid _ was going to raise a lot of eyebrows. 

“Usually Aunt Julia helps me get Dad’s present,” he said, and—as if it would be news to Eliot: “I don’t have money for a Christmas ornament.” 

Teddy’s lower lip wobbled dangerously, but luckily this was something Eliot could handle. He flipped the price tag real quick, just to make sure he knew what he was getting into, but fifteen dollars was well within his holiday gift giving budget. It was daylight robbery for one ornament, but that’s gift shops for you. 

“Listen Teddy,” Eliot said, kneeling down so they could talk like men. “I happen to have the money for a Christmas ornament on me. Why don’t I buy it, and we can say it was from both of us?”

Teddy actually clutched a hand to his tiny chest. “You can do that?” 

Eliot laughed. “Yeah, come on.” 

Eliot carefully removed the ornament from the tree display and walked Teddy up to the register. Eliot exchanged some friendly holiday small talk with the salesperson while she rang them up, and he passed over his credit card without obstacle. Teddy observed this process with care, as though he were making sure they were doing it right. 

“Would you like it wrapped?” The cashier asked. “It’s complimentary.” 

“Yes!” Teddy said. “Then Dad won’t know what’s inside.” 

“He’s the boss,” Eliot said to the salesperson. With an indulgent smile that made Eliot feel a little twitchy, she put Teddy’s ornament in a little white box with some tissue paper, and tied the whole thing up with a long piece of red ribbon. It was pretty classy, Eliot had to admit. 

“And which gift tag would you like, sir?” She asked when she was finished, addressing Teddy directly. Eliot tried to hide his grin as Teddy puffed up, clearly feeling like a real grown-up customer. He lifted him up—damn, kids were  _ heavy _ — on his hip so Teddy could see the top of the counter. After careful thought he chose a tag printed with holly berries, and for the inscription he announced, with no hesitation at all:

“It should say ‘To Dad, Love Teddy and Eliot.” 

Love. 

Love.

_ Love. _

“I—um,” Eliot began before he caught himself. The salesperson looked at him with raised eyebrows, her fancy gold leaf pen poised over the tag. 

“Sir?” 

“Nothing,” he said, swallowing. Q would get it, he thought. No need to cause a scene over a four-year-old’s Christmas tag. “Nothing, that’s great.” 

By Teddy Coldwater’s standards, this day had been a great triumph. Giant gingerbread houses were being built, he talked to the lady in the store “like a real adult,” and now he and Eliot were in cahoots on the perfect Christmas gift for Quentin. Teddy was a careful steward of his little gift box, holding it close to his chest as he and Eliot strolled hand in hand through the remaining shops on their way to the Starbucks in the front lobby. He could hardly be convinced to put it down even to drink his hot chocolate, his feet swinging like little pendulums in his too tall seat to channel his excess excitement. 

Eliot took in this turn of events with cautious optimism. It turned out making a four year old happy gave you a high on par with the good weed he remembered from spring break 2012. It was cheaper too. 

Eliot was on the cusp of genuinely feeling the Christmas spirit when he and Teddy meandered their way back over to the gingerbread displays in progress. They turned the corner when Teddy gasped and pointed a chubby finger ahead, his eyes going round. 

“Look,” he said. “The castle!”

Sure enough, in two hours Quentin had worked magic. It was all just gingerbread and frosting (and some strategically placed dowels, no doubt) but the  _ Royalty _ display table was now graced with the towers and turrets of Fillory’s Whitespire. Quentin and Benedict were just shoring up the icing seams on the main roof, but otherwise it was Eliot’s design come to life. 

“It’s just like Fillory,” Teddy declared, holding tight to Eliot’s hand. 

“Your dad did a pretty amazing job,” Eliot agreed, smiling when Quentin caught sight of them. 

“Hey buddy, Welcome back,” he said, pulling Teddy in for a quick hug. “Did you guys get into any trouble?” 

“Nope,” Teddy said, grinning up at Eliot and clutching his gift secretively. Quentin raised his eyebrows but Eliot just winked at him. 

“Just cocoa and a little window shopping,” he said. “Nothing any dads need to know about until Christmas.” 

Quentin’s gaze went warm. “Eliot, you didn’t need to—”

Eliot waved him off. “It’s really nothing. Besides, look at this! You weren’t fu—” he glanced down at Teddy. “I mean—  _ messing _ around earlier. You got the whole thing done.”

“Well, almost,” Quentin said, wiping his brow on his sleeve as he set his piping bag down. “We can’t do the exterior wall until all the interior decorating is done, and we’ll have to make the dragon back in the shop, but—” 

Eliot pulled him in for a kiss. Maybe it was unprofessional, but Quentin didn’t exactly seem to mind. 

“It’s amazing,” he said when they parted. Quentin, looking a little dazed, blushed. Eliot wasn’t unaffected either. 

“Thanks,” he said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “Now for the fun part. Who wants to help unwrap some candy while we wait for the frosting to set?” 

Eliot felt like he was dreaming in Necco Wafers and buttermints for the two days it took them to finish all the decorating. Every inch of roof had to be shingled in a different sweet, and every window latticed and lined with jewel-like hard candies. Quentin had sourced blue and white ribbon candy to make a running water moat around the castle inside the wall, and tiny animal crackers took the place of sculpture tracery along all the turrets, each with colorful candy dots to add sparkle and shine. Eliot spent most of day two with a pair of tweezers in hand, draping garlands over every archway one holly leaf sprinkle at a time. Delicate work, and Eliot appreciated all the contestants on Netflix baking shows he had seen over the years. 

The extra touches were the decorations Quentin baked himself. There was a meringue cookie— light as air and brushed with edible luster— to “float” above the top of every tower, and with a combination of macarons and intricately decorated gingerbread cutouts Quentin surrounded the foot of the castle in a wintry topiary garden fit for...well, royalty. At the end of the second day Benedict returned to deliver the  _ piece de resistance:  _ a dragon made entirely of marzipan, with glimmering red and gold scales and one pastillage wing extended. Quentin had made him to curl around the outer wall like a cat, and set a meringue cookie between his front claws with a bite missing. Eliot watched him take a brush with some purified charcoal and dab a little onto the gingerbread wall near the dragons mouth, as though some accidental fire breathing had scorched it. It was horrifically charming. 

It was every inch, Quentin. 

Looking around the room, Eliot saw a lot of structures that looked like his first design. A lot of minimal decoration and sleek vertical lines, but Quentin had been right. In the warm light of the showroom—draped in holly garland and a Christmas tree in every corner— they looked cold, and too plain. Whether the judges would like their entry best, Eliot couldn’t say, but the  _ Royalty _ / _ Coldwater and Sons  _ collaboration jumped out from the group. He had a good feeling about the final impact—Teddy was definitely enchanted. That, more than a few casino employees’ excited requests for photos and the jealous glances of their competitors, made Eliot feel like he’d done his job. 

“I don’t care if we win or not,” he told Quentin honestly, when they were down to clean up and a few strategic applications of powdered sugar. “This is amazing.”

Quentin beamed at him. “I think so too.” 

With nothing left to decorate, they set up their sign, to let guests and judges know what they were looking at. 

_ “A Royal Christmas”  _

_ designed by Eliot Waugh of Royalty Architecture and Design _

_ produced by Quentin Coldwater of Coldwater and Sons Bakery _

_ (assisted by Teddy Coldwater) _

~

On December 20th—with the gingerbread castle on display and therefore no longer demanding all their time and energy—Eliot found himself back at Quentin’s apartment. He wasn’t there just to eat take out and then drag Quentin to bed either. 

Eliot was there because Quentin was hosting his annual Christmas party, and Eliot was his date.

“Julia convinced me, the first time,” Quentin had explained, while Eliot helped him string up Christmas lights across the apartment ceiling the night before. “It had been like, eight months since—well, Arielle, and Teddy was almost one—” Jesus  _ Christ _ , Eliot thought to himself— “And I thought, ‘yeah I think I’m ready to be part of the world again,’ so I made cinnamon rolls and invited a few people over and I guess now it’s kind of, well...tradition.” 

Eliot had held Quentin’s waist steady as he stepped down from the kitchen chair, then he’d spun him around and kissed him. 

“You are an incredibly brave person,” Eliot had informed him, followed by a kiss to his cute little furrowed brow, just because Eliot felt like it. Quentin had of course gone pink. 

“It was no big deal,” he insisted. “Just a little get together. Anyways, help me with the garland in the kitchen.” 

So here Eliot was at Quentin’s “little get together,” in the midst of a dozen or so friends, farmer’s market rivals, and especially loyal  _ Coldwater and Sons _ clients. Quentin had made cookies, though not gingerbread ones (“I swear to God, El, I’m sick of the stuff”), a big sourdough boule worth of bread dip, and a had crockpot of mulled wine on the counter (Eliot bought the wine as his contribution). The rest was potluck, and it wasn’t a bad spread as far as Brooklyn hipster parties went. A highlight was Julia and her lawyer boyfriend’s cheese platter, and some guy named Josh’s herb and veggie dip thing (Eliot had a feeling Josh was capable of providing another type of herb as well, and was just waiting for Teddy to go to bed.) 

Quentin had a Christmas playlist emanating from an unseen source, and the lights were dim in favor of letting the Christmas lights sparkle along with the aid of a few candles on the table and distributed around the bookshelves. The Christmas tree, which had been up since the day after Thanksgiving of course, read like a storybook, each of its mismatched ornaments a tale of holidays past. Teddy had spent most of the evening there before he’d fallen asleep, investigating the charming assortment of gifts waiting for Christmas morning. 

It was...nice. Really nice. 

“This is my friend, Eliot. We were in school together and we just reconnected.” 

That was how Quentin was introducing Eliot to his friends and neighbors, which, okay. That was a nice, ambiguous, no pressure framework for them to operate in for the night. Though, to be fair, they were usually holding hands when Quentin introduced him to people, so it wasn’t actually all that ambiguous. 

The general response to Eliot’s presence was friendly surprise, and then welcome glee, which seemed to make Quentin generally blushy and happy. Eliot for his part was just happy that Quentin seemed to have a community that supported him, and teased him lightly instead of making a big deal out of it when he brought a date to a Christmas party for the first time since his wife’s death.

“Wow,  _ Royalty _ ,” Julia’s boyfriend said, clearly relaxing now that he was no longer the lowest plus-one on the totem pole. “Didn’t you guys just open a hotel on the Vegas strip?” 

“Oh, yes, that was my project actually,” Eliot agreed, more focused on his arm around Quentin’s waist, and how Q was getting a little flushed after two glasses of wine. So cute. 

“No kidding. All this stuff with gingerbread houses must have seemed a little low stakes, huh?” 

Eliot watched as a little sparkle left Quentin’s eyes at James’ words, and that would simply not do. 

“Actually,” he said. “This is probably my favorite project I’ve ever worked on.”

James succeeded in reading the room and moved on to a different topic of conversation. Eliot was only focused on Quentin’s smile. 

Or he was, until his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He glanced at the screen and saw it was Bambi, who was best not to be ignored. 

“Margo’s calling,” he murmured to Quentin, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek. “Mind if I take it in your room?” 

Quentin squeezed his hand and let him go. “Sure thing.” 

Eliot slipped down the hall and into the master bedroom, closing the door to drown out the cheerful strains of  _ Rockin’ around the Christmas Tree _ as he answered the call. 

“Hey Bambi. Is everything okay?” 

There was a strange pause before Margo answered. For a second Eliot thought maybe the connection had dropped. 

“Margo?”

“I’m here,” she said, but then continued: “Why would I need something to not be okay to call?” 

“You don’t,” Eliot said quickly. “It’s just we usually make plans first.” 

“It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday, it’s not like you’d be in a meeting. Aren’t you at home?” 

“I’m—” Eliot winced as he realized he hadn’t been filling Margo in on the minutiae of his life the way he would have in the past. “No, I’m at Quentin’s. He’s having a Christmas party, and he wanted me to meet everyone.” 

“‘Meet everyone’ as in like another mutual friend or meet everyone as in ‘boyfriend’?” Margo asked. Eliot sat down on the end of the bed, hesitant. 

“Probably closer to the second one,” he admitted. 

“Oh.” Margo paused again. “That’s...nice, I guess.” 

Eliot sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “If there’s something you want to say go ahead, Margo.” 

“I’m just wondering if it’s fair to him. You’re gonna meet all his friends and then leave?” 

“We don’t know that I am leaving. I might not get the job.” 

Margo had no patience for his false self-deprecation. “El, baby, you’re a boss bitch and we both know it.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Eliot sighed again. “Tick hasn’t said anything, but I’m almost sure I’ll be in Los Angeles by New Years. The gingerbread thing is...I mean we really knocked it out of the park.”

“You don’t sound as happy about that as you might—”

“Los Angeles?” 

Eliot jumped at the sound of Quentin’s voice. Sure enough, he turned and there he was. 

“El?” Margo’s voice crackled in his ear. “Are you still there?” 

“Bambi, let me call you back,” Eliot said, ending the call as he took in the sight of Quentin and the confused edge of heartbreak in his expression. 

“Q—”

“I—sorry, I was just checking on Teddy, and I heard…” Quentin stared at him, brow furrowed. “El, are you leaving the city?” 

“I might be,” Eliot admitted. “I’ve been trying for a couple of years to get promoted to Los Angeles. That’s where Margo is, and until recently I thought—I mean, I’m on the short list for something. The gingerbread competition was a kind of loyalty test.” 

Quentin’s expression crumpled further. “You never said.” 

“I…” Eliot realized now that Quentin was right. How had he spent the last two months with Q and never mentioned it? When had he even last  _ thought _ about the reality of leaving New York?

“I guess I’ve been taking things one day at a time,” he concluded lamely. “I swear, I wasn’t keeping it from you on purpose, I just didn’t realize.” 

“No, no,” Quentin said, shaking his head. “I remember now, you  _ did _ try to tell me. ‘Saving our overthinking for the gingerbread,’ right?” 

“That wasn’t about this,” Eliot objected. “I just didn’t want—I mean I was nervous, and I didn’t want to build expectations—”   


Quentin flinched a little, and Eliot realized that was probably the worst thing he could have said. 

“No, I mean—it’s not like I thought—” Quentin laughed, short and self deprecating, and it hurt Eliot’s heart. “We aren’t the same kids we were. I should have known it’s all been for fun, right? Just one more part of the whole crazy one-off project.” 

“That’s not it at all, Q. I promise—” 

“Eliot.” For a moment, Quentin's eyes looked wet, but then he blinked and the tears were gone. 

“I think...maybe it has to be,” he said. “Because otherwise what have we been doing?” 

Eliot didn’t have an answer. It was too soon. With months, a  _ year _ , he could give Quentin his whole heart and all the wonderful, tangled up feelings he’s been carrying in it ever since he’d bumped into him in the  _ Royalty  _ hallway, or the first time Teddy had smiled at him, but this was too soon. 

“If you’re going, then I need to start putting things in perspective. For myself, and for Teddy.” 

Eliot swallowed, his gaze on the carpet. “I’m probably going,” he agreed. 

“Okay.” Quentin’s voice was resigned, the kind of calm resignation that came with too many things being taken away from him. He sighed. “Okay.”

Quentin came and sat beside him on the bed. He ran his fingers through his hair, his shoulders hunched in.

“We never got the chance to resolve this...thing, leftover between us from school and now we have,” he said. “That still means a lot, even if it isn’t—even if this wasn’t the right time for us."

“It’s meant everything.” Eliot wanted so much to touch Quentin, to hold him, but he wasn’t sure if it would be welcome. “You’re right—I mean about the timing, but it’s been so important to me, Quentin, to—to—” 

Eliot wasn’t able to finish his sentence. How could he? He was the one who had been planning on walking out since the start. He hadn’t been thinking of it that way, obviously, but when he thought now about Quentin’s perspective....

“It’s okay,” Quentin promised, although Eliot was feeling anything but. “We’re both grown ups, yeah?” 

“I...yeah.” Eliot wished he had anything to say to Quentin right now to make this better. 

“Um, stay tonight? If you want to,” Quentin said, slipping his fingers around Eliot’s wrist and holding him for a moment. “I still—I mean, I need to go have another drink and let this soak in, and you know, be a good party host, but—unless it’s weird for you—I’d still like to enjoy the time we have.” 

Something wound tight in Eliot relaxed. At the same time he thought he might cry. 

“I’ll stay,” he promised. 

There were still about two hours of party left, and Quentin smiled and joked and sang along badly to carols through it all. Eliot could do little more than witness in awe, and do his part not to bring the mood down. He was reminded starkly, watching Quentin oversee the white elephant gift exchange, the origins of this annual soiree. He couldn’t imagine Quentin three years ago, still raw with grief but determined to have a holiday; to prove to his friends that he was going to be alright and that Teddy would grow up in a house that knew how to celebrate. It was the kind of performance Eliot had given his whole life, until it wasn’t a performance anymore. By the time Quentin saw the last of his guests out the door laden with plates of leftovers, his smile was real, and when he closed the door and leaned back against it there was nothing but tenderness in the look he gave Eliot. 

The Christmas music was still going, and something warm and nostalgic came across Quentin’s face as James Taylor started playing. 

“Dance with me?” he asked, offering his hands, and Eliot was helpless to refuse the offer. He let Quentin pull him close and curl his hand over his shoulder. Eliot wound their fingers together and tucked them against his chest, his free hand slipping around the to the small of Quentin’s back. Quentin sighed, relaxing into Eliot’s touch, and they swayed together as the familiar lyrics began.

_ Have yourself a merry little Christmas, _

_ Let your heart be light… _

_ In a year, our troubles will be out of sight... _

“Only you would have the sad version of ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’, on a party playlist,” Eliot murmured. It would be a tease if either of them were in a teasing mood. 

“The sad version is better.” 

Quentin smiled at him, their faces so near that Eliot could feel the shape of it against his cheek. He rubbed his thumb in circles against Quentin’s back, reminded of just how  _ much _ Quentin had been through in the last ten years, and yet here he was, letting Eliot break his heart.

“The sad things help you feel how sweet the happy things are,” he continued. “Don’t you think, El?” 

“I—yeah,” Eliot agreed, throat a bit tight. “Yeah, I do. Q—” 

But Quentin shushed him, and laid his head on Eliot’s shoulder. “Just feel it with me,” he murmured. 

Eliot pressed his lips to Quentin’s temple. “Yeah, okay.” 

_ In a year we all will be together, if the fates allow… _

_ Until then we’ll just have to muddle through somehow... _

After, they cleaned up the worst of the party mess and went to bed. Eliot was expecting—was  _ grateful _ —just to fall asleep together, but once they settled in and the lights were off Quentin rolled over and pulled him into a kiss. 

“Please,” he begged in a whisper, dragging Eliot’s hands onto his body. “Please, touch me.” 

Eliot touched him. He kissed him. He  _ took care of him _ in the only way he knew how. They stifled their groans as Eliot stripped them and took them together in one hand, all too aware of Quentin’s son sleeping only a few walls away. Quentin bit his lip, his moans muffled to sighs, and Eliot was astounded that he could have such an effect on him. 

Astounded that he could have this, even for what little time he had left. 

It was quick, and hushed, and it wasn’t like Quentin hadn’t acquired some good silicone lube in the last couple of weeks, but this was what Quentin needed from him. He needed to be close, for Eliot to cover him with his body and press their cocks together into the squeeze of his hand until they were both shaking near the precipice. 

“You—you make me feel so  _ good _ ,” Quentin rasped as they rocked, and when Eliot stroked them together again he came helplessly with a groan, his lips pressed to Quentin’s throat. Sensitive, he fit his hand around Quentin alone and worked him until he got there too, shuddering as he spilled white over Eliot’s fist. 

“Thank you,” Quentin breathed as they came down, as though he hadn’t been the one to give Eliot everything, every beautiful fragile piece of himself. “El, thank you.” 

Eliot held Quentin against his chest until he fell asleep, but he laid awake for a long time, his throat tight. Life with Margo in L.A. had been his dream for so long, he didn’t know how to imagine anything else. Now he knew when he boarded that plane, he’d be leaving something important behind. 

There would always be a piece of him here in Brooklyn with Quentin and his son.

~

On December 22nd, Eliot and Quentin left the Gingerbread gala while the night was still young. Eliot was carrying a blue ribbon, a signed certificate of congratulations from the New York State Council for the Arts, and a $300 gift certificate from the hotel/casino in honor of their victory. Quentin was carrying Teddy, who was dead asleep after the evening’s excitement. They ducked into a Brooklyn bound Uber just as a magical Christmas snow began to fall. 

“We did it,” Quentin murmured, smiling into Eliot’s kiss. 

“We did.” Eliot kissed him again, then shook the snow out of his hair before it could drip down the inside of his collar. It was warm in the car, and he was feeling the glow of victory and the complimentary champagne. 

“I never could have done this without you,” he said, his hand on Quentin’s knee. “Did you see the rest? The best pastry chefs in New York couldn’t beat your imagination, Q.” 

Quentin’s cheeks pinked. “We make a good team.” 

Eliot’s smile faltered just as his phone buzzed with an incoming email. He went cold when he saw it was from Tick. A quick glance told him all he needed to know.

“ _ Royalty _ loved it,” he told Quentin, reading from the email. “And they’re thrilled with Coldwater and Sons. You’re going to be their exclusive vendor for all future company events—if you want it—and they want to add you to all their guest recommendation lists in their New York hotels.” 

That was going to change Quentin’s life. That— on top of all the business cards Eliot had seen him collecting, with food and wine press looking to do profiles and interviews—would hopefully be a new lease on life for  _ Coldwater and Sons _ . Eliot could see the relief written into Quentin’s every breath earlier that night, when they’d been called up on stage to receive their blue ribbon. It was everything Eliot had hoped for him. 

Quentin reached out, circling his fingers around Eliot’s wrist. “What about you?” he asked, though resignation already colored his words. 

“Yeah,” Eliot said, staring down the words on his phone. “They’re happy. I got the promotion.”

Quentin sighed. “Okay. That’s great, El. When do you go?” 

“Right away. My first team meeting will be on the twenty-sixth, so—” 

“So you’ll have to fly out before Christmas.” 

Eliot swallowed. “Yeah, looks like it.” 

There wasn’t really a lot to say to that. Their “one day at a time” strategy had played out, and now they were at the end. Teddy mumbled something sleepy against Quentin’s chest, shifting a little before settling back down. Quentin sighed again, winding his fingers through Eliot’s and giving his hand a squeeze. 

“We have to tell him.” 

Eliot put his phone away and pet the fingers of his free hand through Teddy’s hair, something sharp lodged in his gut. He’d been so excited all night, the darling of the party with his good manners and his little  _ Coldwater and Sons  _ sweater. There was going to be a picture in the Times tomorrow— page twelve under the fold— of the three of them, with Teddy in Quentin’s arms holding their ribbon with the biggest smile. Eliot had gotten the photographer to send him the picture already. They looked like a family. 

“I know,” he said. “In the morning, I’ll tell him.”

Outside, the Christmas snow was turning into cold rain. 

~

Teddy didn’t take it particularly well. 

“Los Angeles?” he repeated the next morning after waffles, his little brow furrowed. “Where’s that?” 

“California,” Eliot explained. “It’s on the other side of the country.” 

Teddy frowned. “So, like as far as Queens?” 

Eliot could have laughed— Teddy was a city kid through and through. But this was one of the most painful conversations of his life. 

“A lot further than Queens. I’ll have to fly there on a plane, and I won’t be able to come visit very often.” 

“Why would you want to go there?” 

“I’m going to have a new job,” he said. “And my best friend Margo lives there, too, and she really misses me.” 

Teddy considered that. “Okay,” he said. “But when are you coming back?” 

Eliot swallowed. “Um, I’m moving there. Like—” 

“Like how grandma moved to New Jersey to live with Lisa,” Quentin interjected. Teddy’s eyes widened, and to Eliot’s horror they began to fill with tears. 

“But we can still talk on the phone,” Eliot tried to reassure him. “Or—or Facetime, as often as you want, Teddy, I promise—” 

The look Teddy gave him could have broken a stone heart. “That’s not the same,” he said, cutting to the truth in the way only a child could. “Don’t you love us?”

“I—Teddy—” 

But Eliot hesitated too long, and Teddy shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said, voice small. Eliot tried to reach out, but Teddy pushed his hand away and scrambled off the couch. 

“Ted, hang on, buddy—” Quentin said, but Teddy was gone down the hall, and Eliot heard the slam of his bedroom door a moment later. Quentin followed him, leaving Eliot alone in the living room. 

Eliot stayed, there, knelt in front of the couch, for the next few minutes. He could hear Quentin’s low murmur from down the hall, and Teddy’s replies, growing in pitch until he was  _ crying _ . 

He didn’t know what to do with that. Eliot didn’t—he wasn’t sure what he expected, but the idea of Teddy actually being upset that he was leaving? It had never occurred to him. He was...a novelty, a different grown up, but Eliot never thought Teddy would miss him beyond the fun of the gingerbread house and Eliot’s comically awkward attempts at conversation. 

By the quieting sounds coming from Teddy’s room, Eliot might have meant something much more than that, and he didn’t know how to wrap his head around it. 

Quentin emerged a few minutes later, and Eliot ached to see his eyes were red as well. 

“He’s asleep,” Quentin said, voice low. “I think last night was a lot, and he’s still tired. He’ll feel better after a nap.” 

“Q, I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay, really,” Quentin said, running his hands through his hair. “He’ll be alright, I just didn’t realize he’d gotten so attached. I think he thought you were—” 

A funny expression crossed Quentin’s face, and he turned away. 

_ He thought I was staying forever _ , Eliot realized. 

“Anyway, it’s just because I haven’t dated, really, since Arielle, and he doesn’t understand—” 

“Q?” Eliot’s voice was rough. “Can I hold you?” 

Quentin rubbed at his eye with his knuckles. It was something Eliot remembered from school, when Quentin and Alice had broken up. Quentin had rarely cried, but he had these little gestures, as though he needed to stave off the possibility of tears. 

“Yeah,” he said, coming over to drop onto the couch beside him. Eliot folded him into his arms, tucking Quentin’s face against his throat. It was bittersweet, to say the least. Eliot was the source of the pain, but if even in this small way he could still offer comfort then he would give Quentin everything he could.

“I just hate to see him upset,” Quentin said after a few minutes. “It’s okay, you know, for him to feel things, but he’s usually such a happy kid and I always worry—” 

“I know.” Eliot pressed his hand between Quentin’s shoulder blades, rubbing in slow circles. 

“I love Teddy, you know that, right, Q?” he continued. “You’ve raised an amazing kid, and he loves you so much. Getting to share that, even if only for a while, I—” 

Eliot inhaled, and it was shaky. “I don’t think I even knew what happy was before now. So thank you. Thank you so much.” 

They held each other, until Eliot could hear stirring in Teddy’s room and decided it was time to make a graceful exit. 

“I should go.”

“You could stay,” Quentin said, his grip on the back of Eliot’s sweater going tight for a moment. And in that moment, there wasn’t anything Eliot wanted in the world, but— 

“No, I—I would, really—but it would only upset Teddy and I…” Eliot swallowed. “I have to pack for my flight tomorrow.” 

Quentin—gorgeous, patient,  _ forgiving _ Quentin— let him go. 

~

After nearly two months of basically living in each other's pockets thanks to the gingerbread contest (and you know, sleeping together), Eliot’s last moments with Quentin turned out to be something of an anti-climax. 

It was—god— it was so stupid, but he’d left his laptop at Quentin’s apartment, in its Prada case, and so December the twenty-fourth found Eliot on his way to JFK making an  _ expensive  _ pitstop in Brooklyn. 

It was Christmas Eve, so of course Quentin was swamped, a line nearly out the door as half of Brooklyn came to pick up their last minute cookies and breads for dinner the next day. Eliot barely managed to make it in the shop past the grandmothers accusing him of cutting in line. “No, I’ve been fucking the baker and need to pick up a bag I forgot” was not an excuse that he was about to use. 

Benedict was at the register—Quentin nowhere in sight—with Eliot’s laptop case set at his feet behind the counter. He handed it over to Eliot with an apologetic grimace. 

“Sorry,” he said, “Quentin wanted to say goodbye, but he’s on the phone with some kind of last minute pickup.” 

“Oh.” Eliot couldn’t pretend he wasn’t disappointed. “Um, that’s okay, Benedict. Thanks anyway.” 

“Sure. Merry Christmas!” 

Eliot stepped out of line, and through the open archway to the kitchen he just managed to see Quentin, a phone pressed to his ear and an apron on over his usual hoodie. He was in the way, he had a cab waiting outside, but just for a minute, Eliot stood and stared at the man he’d fallen for in just a few short weeks. As if he sensed his presence, Quentin looked up and his eyes widened. His lips parted, but then his gaze went distant as he listened to someone speaking over the line. He glanced back at Eliot, gesturing to the phone apologetically. 

Eliot smiled, to show he understood, and just waved, his heart literally aching in his chest. Quentin waved back, this sad little smile on his face, and that was it. 

Eliot stepped back out into the cold and his waiting cab. 

“Okay, sorry about that,” he said to the driver. “Straight to JFK, please.”

He made it through traffic, and then security in a two hour daze, the crush of people nightmarish given the rush of holiday travel. He was practically numb by the time he found a seat near his gate. He dropped his bag at his feet and called Margo, slipping headphones into his ears as his video call went through. Margo picked up at her desk at the office, some kind of salad in front of her. 

“Hi, Bambi,” he said, “Is this a bad time?” 

“No, I’m just squeezing in a late lunch,” she replied. “Are you actually at the airport?” 

Eliot frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Margo made a funny expression. “No reason, I guess. You’ve got a layover in Chicago, right?” 

“Yeah, it’s gonna be a nightmare,” Eliot said, easing slightly in his seat. “But the weather doesn’t look too bad. I should be in LA tomorrow around nine.” 

“I’ll be there to pick you up, with shots and sunscreen and all that,” Margo promised. “Unless—” 

Eliot’s screen interrupted the call to warn him that his charge was low. 

“Hang on, I’m out of wifi and it’s eating my battery—” 

Eliot unzipped his laptop case to find his charger, and was pulled up short. There at the top of his bag, was a little bundle of red tissue paper. Puzzled, Eliot poked at it to find there was something wrapped inside.

“Eliot? Are you there?” 

“Uh, yeah, Bambi,” Eliot replied. “Just—hold on a second.” 

He pulled the tissue—and its contents—free, and another piece of paper fell to the linoleum beneath his feet. Setting the mystery package in his lap, Eliot picked up the note. It was written in neat, feminine handwriting—probably some assistance from Aunt Julia—but Eliot knew who must have given him this gift when he saw the signature at the bottom, scrawled with bright red crayon and a little lopsided. 

_ To Eliot,  _

_ We are going to miss you very much. Please put this on your Christmas tree in Los Angeles, so you never forget me. _

_ Love, Teddy _

Carefully, now that he could guess what was inside, Eliot uncrumpled the red tissue paper in his lap until he was holding Teddy’s gift. It was the Christmas ornament they’d bought together for Quentin. Eliot held the little gingerbread house in his hands. It was so small and fragile. It was a miracle Eliot hadn’t broken it going through security.

Eliot’s next inhale was a shaky one, and he was startled by the  _ plink _ of a single tear hitting the tissue paper in his lap.  _ Fuck _ . Teddy had given away his present for Quentin. He gave it to Eliot, just like that, and wrote  _ love, Teddy _ on the card like it was nothing. Like Eliot hadn’t waltzed into his life and right back out without even considering what he’d be doing to a little boy who had already lost so much. 

“Eliot?” Margo’s voice was nothing short of alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I’m okay, I— um,” Eliot wiped at his eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop. He was going to miss them both  _ so much _ . “Nothing a margarita won’t fix once I’m in California. Maybe two.” 

“This doesn’t sound like a two drink problem. Baby, I think you might be feeling, like, real emotions.” 

“No, no—” God, he was making a scene in this waiting lounge. “It’s just Teddy got me a present, and he was so upset that I was leaving—and like, why would he care? I’ve never had a little kid  _ actually _ want me around or—or be sad that I was going away, or act like I was…” 

_ Like he cared. Like I was part of his  _ family _.  _ How was Eliot supposed to just move on from that? He’d kept the whole snarled Christmas/home/family  _ thing  _ boxed away for so long, and now he felt like he was spilling everywhere. 

Margo took a thoughtful pause, and when she spoke it startled Eliot out of his tears. 

“...El, why are you getting on this plane?”

“Why?” Eliot repeated stupidly. “I mean, we’ve been planning this for years. I  _ promised _ .”

“Yeah, and so what?” 

He blinked. “So  _ what _ ?”

“That’s what I said. We’re both grown ups,” Margo said, in an eerie echo of Quentin. “If things have changed now’s the time to figure it out, not at LAX.” 

“But what about our apartment, and Mai Tais on the balcony?” Eliot asked. They’d laughed about those plans so often he could practically play them in his head like a movie. 

“Honey, I work 80 hours a week,” Margo said, her laugh not unkind. “Those are nice ideas to imagine on the phone, but LA isn’t going to be rock candy mountain.” 

Eliot sniffled. “I never read  _ Of Mice and Men _ ,” he protested. 

“Clearly you did, jackass, or you wouldn’t get the reference,” Margo continued. “All I’m saying is I love Los Angeles. It’s loud and chaotic, and full of smog when it  _ isn’t  _ on fire, and I love it anyway. I have friends here, and I’ve been in love here. You remember I almost moved in with that one guy.” 

“Yeah.” 

“All I’m saying is, you might not love it,” she said. “We made that promise when you were still on the bottom of the ladder, working sixty hour weeks to sleep in a shitty apartment with nobody who cared if you lived or died except me on the phone. But the real Los Angeles isn’t going to be an escape from your lonely nights in New York. And I don’t think that’s what you need anymore.”

“I miss you, Bambi,” Eliot said. “I want to be glamorous mega-bitches together.”

“I want that too, but we aren’t twenty-two anymore,” Margo said. “If this feels like it’s going to be a step backwards then Eliot, you’ve got to ask yourself if you’re making the right decision.” 

“How could I….” Eliot felt like he was staring at the edge of a precipice, and all he wanted to do was jump. “Could I just change my mind? What about—” 

“Tick’s been begging you to stay in New York,” she said. “You’d be able to right your own check. And Quentin...you sounded  _ happy  _ when you were with him. If he’s what you want, then who the fuck are you letting stop you?”

It sounded so simple when she put it like that. Eliot cradled Teddy’s ornament in his hands. It felt like suddenly the whole world was reshaping itself around him. 

What was he doing here? 

“I love you, Margo.” 

“I know. Now go  _ home _ .” 

Eliot hung up, tugging the headphones out of his ear and stuffing them in his bag. With Teddy’s Christmas gift in hand, he wound his way through the crowds and back outside of the security gates. Eliot was just pulling out his phone to call a car back to Brooklyn when he looked up to the sight of a familiar pair of figures. 

He nearly dropped his phone. 

Quentin was  _ here _ . 

Eliot approached slowly, his mind slowly wrapping around this new reality. Quentin was here, and Teddy was in his arms. They were facing away from him, but Eliot could tell by the hunch of Quentin’s shoulders that he was upset, and trying his best to hide it. Slowly, disbelief coloring his every breath, Eliot pieced together the scene. 

_ They had come to stop him _ . He could hear, as he drew closer, Quentin—god, sweet, hopeful, fearless Quentin— trying to comfort his son, as if they’d been too late. 

“Hey, buddy, it’s okay, yeah? Don’t cry. Eliot will still be our friend, even if he has to live far away—” 

It was Teddy who spotted him first, over Quentin’s shoulder. His brown eyes went wide, and he called out:

“Eliot!”

Quentin whirled around, but Teddy was already wiggling free from his arms. Eliot stepped forward to catch him in a hug as he ran the few yards between them. 

“Eliot,” Teddy said, his voice muffled into Eliot’s coat. “I knew you wouldn’t go away forever. I knew it.” 

“I couldn’t go,” Eliot said, his eyes burning again. “Not after I got your present. Thank you so much, Teddy.” 

He showed Teddy the ornament he’d found in his bag, still wrapped in its tissue paper. “Will you hold on to it for me? I don’t have a Christmas tree, and it should hang somewhere that we can all admire it.” 

Teddy took the little glass gingerbread house in his hands carefully. 

“You can share our tree,” he said. Eliot smiled, and looked up to where Quentin was staring at him, hope and disbelief warring on his face in equal measure. 

“Only if it’s okay with your dad.” 

Eliot rose to his feet as Quentin approached, his eyes shining with tears. 

“Eliot.” 

Eliot picked Teddy up, balancing on his hip as he pulled Quentin into a tight hug. Quentin’s arms wrapped around his waist, squeezing tight, and Eliot had never felt so safe and so wanted ever in his life. 

“I can’t believe it,” Quentin said after a minute, laughing as he wiped at his eyes. “What about your promotion? And Margo?” 

Eliot just shook his head. 

“I couldn’t leave,” he said, cradling the back of Quentin’s neck in his hand. “I’ll still have my job here in New York, and Bambi understands. I just realized, the only thing I don’t want to live without anymore is you.” 

“El—” 

“I was so in love with you, in college,” Eliot confesses all at once, “And I know neither of us are the same person we were then, but I want us to have a real chance, Q. I…”

Eliot cupped Quentin’s cheek in his hand, and his heart thundered in his chest when Quentin leaned into the touch. 

“Someday, maybe,” Eliot said, his voice low beneath the murmur of the crowded airport, “I feel like we could be a family. I know I started this off all wrong, but will you give me a chance?” 

Quentin smiled, and it was a little sad, like all his smiles were, but full of complete and utter relief. He pulled Eliot in until their foreheads were touching. They held Teddy safe between them, and together they just  _ breathed _ .

“Come home with us, El,” he said after a minute, and it was the most wonderful Christmas gift Eliot had ever received. He kissed him, quick and light, then pressed a kiss to the top of Teddy’s head as well. 

“Yeah,” he said. “Okay."


	4. Home for Christmas

It was nearly eight am, Christmas morning, and in the Coldwater house they were well into coffee and presents. 

(“Wow, Teddy really slept in this year.” “Jesus, really?” Yeah, it must have been all the excitement last night.”)

Eliot was just happy to be included, watching Quentin open gifts “from Teddy” that had obviously been curated by Aunt Julia, and to see Teddy light up over a new dinosaur figurines and a Lego set of Castle Whitespire. In a special moment for all three of them Quentin unwrapped the gingerbread Christmas ornament, secretly returned to its box by Teddy and Eliot and then placed on the tree with great ceremony. Soon enough, there was only one gift left. 

“Hm, this one looks pretty special,” Quentin said, pulling the large-ish box wrapped in green paper out from under the tree. “Who’s it for?” 

“Lemme see!” 

Eliot watched with a smile as Teddy clambered into Quentin’s lap to get a look at the tag attached to the red ribbon on the present. 

“To Teddy,” Teddy read, lighting up. “That’s me! To Teddy and…” 

Eliot sipped his coffee, letting the moment wash over him more than actually paying attention. Yesterday had possibly been one of the worst days of his life, and now here he was with Quentin and his son. 

“Teddy and—um—El... _ El _ ...” 

“What’s the first letter, buddy?” 

“‘E’.” 

“That’s right, and who do we know who’s name starts with ‘E’?”

“Eliot!” 

Eliot started at the sound of his own name, and found an adorable father and son duo staring up at him expectantly. 

“Eliot,” Teddy said. “This one is for you and me! ‘To Teddy and Eliot’!” 

“You and me?” Eliot repeated, looking at Quentin, who just raised his eyebrows. 

“It’s from Santa,” he said. “I think you two better open it.” 

“Q…” 

Quentin smiled, and kissed Eliot’s cheek as he joined them on the carpet. 

“‘Santa’ already had this planned,” he whispered while Teddy was distracted wrestling with the ribbon. “But, um, I thought of you, that’s all.” 

Eliot furrowed his brow, puzzled, but then Teddy deposited himself in his lap, holding the present which was almost too big for his little arm span. 

“We have to open it together,” he declared, looking up at Eliot with a grin. For a second Eliot was overcome. This little person  _ trusted _ him.  _ Quentin _ trusted him with his son. He wanted Eliot to be a part of this moment with them. He looked at Quentin, and saw a warmth in his eyes that showed he understood. 

“I—right.” he said, clearing his throat. “Lead the way, Ted.” 

They both took an end—Eliot’s hands were comically giant compared to Teddy’s small ones—and got to work. It took a second, and some fiddling with a stubborn piece of scotch tape, but soon the wrapping paper was peeled away. All Eliot took in was a pink and purple box and a familiar logo before his eyes blurred with tears. 

“An Easy Bake Oven!” he heard Teddy crow. Eliot absorbed Teddy’s excitement while he just felt... _ everything _ . 

It hurt, but in a good way. Like a broken bone healing. Teddy would never worry—like Eliot did for so long—that he was the wrong kind of kid for his dad to be able to love properly. The kind of home that Eliot wished for, that his grandmother had been able to give him in stolen moments and holidays, that would be Teddy’s whole life. That was Quentin’s gift, as much as toy oven, and it meant  _ everything.  _

The touch of a chubby little hand on his face brought him back to the moment. 

“Eliot?” Teddy was staring up at him in concern. “Are you sad?” 

“No, no, Teddy,” Eliot said, laughing as he wiped his eyes. “I’m happy. I’m really  _ really _ happy.” 

“Okay. Now we can bake together!” Teddy declared, reassured of Eliot’s Christmas cheer. “An Easy-Bake oven is lots of fun. My friend Jessica has one at her house.” 

“I’ve never had one,” Eliot said. “Do you think you can show me the ropes?” 

Teddy nodded, already studying the box carefully. “Dad can help too, since he’s a professional.”

“You hear that, Q? You’re invited—oof—” 

Eliot was looking away when he found himself with an armful of four year-old. Teddy hugged like he did everything, with the single minded determination he’d gotten from his dad. 

“I’m glad you didn’t go all the way to Los Angeles to live, Eliot,” Teddy said, his arms tight around Eliot’s neck. “That would make baking together really hard.” 

Eliot wrapped Quentin’s son in a careful hug. “I’m glad, too.” 

It was almost enough send him into further hysterics. Eliot met Quentin’s eye over Teddy’s shoulder and wondered just how he could possibly express how wonderful—how grateful— he felt in that moment. It was too soon to say “I love you,” but that was the only name for what was fluttering around in Eliot’s heart. 

“Thank you,” he mouthed instead. Quentin beamed, rubbing Teddy’s back, and Eliot could tell he knew exactly how he was feeling. 

That was the climax of the present opening, and then it was time for breakfast. Eliot made them scrambled eggs and bacon while Quentin put a tube of Pilsbury biscuits (he didn’t work on Christmas, he claimed) in the oven. The house was full of light and good smells, and the sounds of Teddy playing with his new toys in the living room. Eliot was savoring every moment.

“I feel bad,” Eliot said, keeping his voice too low for four-year-old ears as Quentin lingered beside him at the stove with his coffee. “You got me the perfect gift, and I didn’t get you anything.” 

Quentin, eyes bright, leaned up to give him a kiss, then laid his head on Eliot’s shoulder. 

“You’re here,” was all he said in reply. Eliot wrapped his arm around Quentin’s waist and squeezed. 

“There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” 

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/185852702@N05/49179039488/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliot Waugh’s future Christmas gifts:  
> Next year: a key to Quentin’s apartment   
> The year after that: an engagement ring  
> Three years after that: Second-parent adoption papers


End file.
